Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 7

DC Gerry Masterson walked down Elmet Hill to talk to Granville Myers, who headed the local Neighbourhood Watch. She had talked to Myers before, while investigating the attack on Lisa Bartlett, and thought it was unlikely that he or any of his team would know anything about the death of Howard Stokes. It had taken place beyond the park, in what might well have been a foreign country. But the visit still had to be made. The residents of the hill area were already complaining about the lack of police presence — hence the Neighbourhood Watch — especially since Lisa’s sexual assault a month ago.

Elmet Hill was a strange area. For a start, on printed town maps the main road was always referred to as Elmet Street, but nobody ever called it that. The tree-lined hill that curved like a bow on its way from North Market Street down to Cardigan Drive was known to all as Elmet Hill, and along its path it radiated a number of winding side streets — a Close, a Terrace, a Crescent, a Way, among others — which made up the area locals referred to as simply ‘the hill’. It was not to be confused with The Heights, of course, Eastvale’s poshest enclave. Gerry had often thought how strange it was to have all three in a row, running downhill from east to west: richest, less rich, poor.

Beyond the small park at the bottom of Elmet Hill ran Cardigan Drive, and over the street stood the decaying and mostly empty streets of the doomed Hollyfield Estate. A popular pub called The Oak stood at the south-eastern corner of Elmet Hill and Cardigan Drive, on the edge of the park, and its beer garden looked out on the trees and the narrow tributary of the River Swain that ran through the park.

The people fortunate enough to live in the pleasant, leafy streets around Elmet Hill were grateful for the short green belt that separated them from Hollyfield, and most people in the neighbourhood were in favour of the new development, although the idea of Elmet Hill being extended through the park at the bottom to form a link with the proposed new shopping centre was a bugbear. Nobody really wanted more traffic running up and down the hill, and nor did they want to lose their park. There were counterproposals, and the local citizens’ committee were hopeful they could get some changes made to the present plan.

It was early evening, and Gerry was glad to be out of the squad room. She had just heard about the boy’s aunt and uncle identifying their nephew’s body. They could now put a name to him: Samir Boulad, from Syria. But they knew nothing else about him yet, except that he had made a long and hard journey away from his family, who had all been killed in a bombing after he left. Just when everyone was starting to think the war was almost over.

Gerry enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face and her hair as she headed down Elmet Hill, only mildly annoyed that the sunny weather would probably bring out her freckles. Myers lived on one of the many narrow, meandering side streets, Elmet Close, and had said over the telephone that he would be pleased to talk to her again. Though he worked in the sales office of an agricultural supplies company in Helmthorpe, he said he often worked from home these days and would put fifteen minutes or so aside for her visit. So eager did he sound that she rather thought he might have an agenda of his own.

Myers’s house was a Georgian semi with a large bay window and a reasonably sized, well-kept front garden, complete with crazy-paving, herbaceous borders, neatly-trimmed lawn and a small patch set aside for herbs. Gerry recognised basil, thyme and rosemary, and could smell their mingled aromas as she passed by. The front door was painted white — recently by the looks of it — with a brass door knocker and four small thick glass panes above the letterbox. There was also a bell, which Gerry pushed, and in no time at all the door was opened by a tall man in navy chinos and a blue and white checked short-sleeve shirt with breast pockets, one of which held a black pen. The white star on its cap protruded pretentiously.

‘Come in,’ said Granville Myers with a smile. He had a fine head of greying hair and a thin face, with a receding chin that Gerry thought might benefit from a small beard. Once again, she was struck by his resemblance to Nigel Farage. ‘We’ll sit in the kitchen,’ he said, as she followed him inside. ‘I’ve put some coffee on. Will that be all right? I can make tea if you’d prefer. DC Masterson, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. And coffee’s fine, thank you,’ said Gerry. The kitchen was a bright, airy room, all clean pine surfaces and gleaming white appliances, with four matching stools around a central island. Myers pointed to one and Gerry sat, resting her feet on the lower bar. The top of the island had a slight overhang which formed a perfect recess under which her knees fitted snugly. Through the window, she could see the paved patio area in the back garden, with its outdoor grill and white table and chairs, all under the shade of a large striped umbrella and an overhanging willow. Very nice, indeed. The hill wasn’t an area of town she knew well at all, and she could see why the locals might like it to remain a well-kept secret. She wondered what the house prices were like. More than she could afford, no doubt; she would be stuck in her one-bedroom flat on the edge of the student area for some time yet, she thought. Still, she had it all to herself, which was more than could be said for many young women away from home for the first time.

When he had poured them both coffee and put out the milk and sugar, Myers sat opposite Gerry and smiled. ‘At your service,’ he said.

‘You may have heard,’ she began, ‘that there’s been a death on Hollyfield Lane.’

‘Yes. A drug addict, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s right. A man in his sixties called Howard Stokes. We don’t think there’s anything suspicious about his death, but we still have to ask a few questions.’

‘Overdose, was what I heard.’

‘Pardon?’

‘A drug overdose. That’s what he died of.’

‘I can’t really comment on that.’

‘Most likely self-administered.’

‘We don’t know that.’

‘Oh, come, come, DC Masterson. Remember Lisa Bartlett?’

‘Yes, of course, she’s—’

‘Then you might also remember that Lisa is the daughter of a very good friend of mine, Gus Bartlett, a fellow founding member of the Watch, and she was sexually assaulted hardly a quarter of a mile from here on her way home from Eastvale Comprehensive just a month ago. The poor girl is still traumatised, absolutely traumatised.’

‘I investigated the case, as you know,’ said Gerry, ‘and it’s terrible, but you have to—’

‘Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had a regular police presence in this area? An occasional car passing through, let alone an officer walking the beat?’

‘Our resources just don’t—’

‘Then what are you here for? It’s not as if your solution rate is that high. I mean, you haven’t found out who assaulted poor Lisa yet, have you?’

‘Believe me, Mr Myers, it’s not for want of trying. She wasn’t able to give us a very accurate description of her attacker. But I want you to know we’re still working on it.’

‘Would you be able to give a description? If you were grabbed from behind and... and violently sexually assaulted in the dark? Do you really think you would be making notes of your attacker’s appearance? I have children, DC Masterson. Including a nine-year-old daughter. Can you imagine how that makes me feel about living here with a monster like that on the loose? Can you?’

‘Sir, these occurrences are very rare. Besides, it’s not that—’

‘Tell that to Gus Bartlett. The poor bloke’s at his wits’ end. Not to mention his wife, Sally. And Lisa’s brother, poor Jason. He’s having to try and concentrate on sitting his A-levels with all this going on. My own son’s having a hard time of it, too. Jason and Chris are best friends.’

‘I’m very sorry for your—’

Myers leaned back and seemed to relax. Now that he had said his piece, his voice took on a softer, more sing-song tone, as if placating a wayward child. ‘I’m not blaming you, DC Masterson. I’m sure you’re doing your best under the circumstances. No. It’s the system. I realise that. A government that would rather spend money on campaigns to keep itself in power than on personal security, education and healthcare. I’m not blaming you personally, but I do think the police could try just a little bit harder.’

‘I assure you the Lisa Bartlett case is still being investigated, sir. It’s still active.’

‘But the death of this drug addict takes precedence. Is that it?’

‘Not at all. This is a separate issue.’

‘And no doubt you’re putting the rest of your resources into investigating the death of that young Arab up on the East Side Estate, eh?’

‘His name is Samir Boulad, and he came here from Syria all by himself. And he was murdered. There’s no doubt about that. Brutally stabbed to death, and we—’

Myers’s voice hardened again. ‘Are you saying that’s worse than what happened to Lisa?’

There was no real answer to that if you were talking to the kind of person who thought an assault on a young white girl was worse than the murder of a Middle Eastern boy, but Lisa Bartlett would heal in time, would go on to live a normal and possibly very productive life; Samir Boulad would not. ‘We don’t make such comparisons, sir,’ Gerry said. ‘We have limited resources and we allocate them as best we can. I wish I could send you ten officers to patrol your neighbourhood every night of the week, but I can’t.’

Myers ran his hand through his hair. ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘Believe me, I know. I’m sorry. Put it down to tiredness. I’m out almost every night with the Watch these days. It’s tiring me out. All of us. But we can’t risk another girl getting assaulted.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think I really want to give up my evenings to wander these streets until all hours? I’d rather be home with my wife watching TV and having a beer or two.’

‘I’m sure you would, sir,’ said Gerry. ‘But I came to see if you could help us. After all, you do patrol the streets around here, even if you don’t venture as far as Hollyfield. You know better than we do what’s going on in the neighbourhood. How many of you are there?’

‘In the Watch? Oh, it varies,’ said Myers. ‘We don’t wear uniforms or anything, you know. We’re not some paramilitary militia or vigilante outfit. We just walk the streets, usually in groups of two. My son Chris is also involved on occasion. And Lisa’s father and brother. There’s my next door neighbour, Bill Parsons; Harry, the landlord of The Oak at the bottom of the hill; the Farrars. Several others. Women as well as men. About twenty in all, but not all active at once, of course. We take turns.’

‘Can you give me a list of the members?’

‘Of course,’ said Myers. ‘I’ll run off a copy for you before you leave.’

‘Thank you, sir. Have you noticed anything unusual in the neighbourhood lately?’

‘As you said, we don’t patrol Hollyfield,’ said Myers, ‘and we certainly advise our children not to go there, so I can’t really tell you anything about this drug addict. We do know Hollyfield’s a haven for addicts and hooligans. They cross the park sometimes. We’ve had two break-ins lately, as well as the assault, you know, but since we’ve increased our patrols, things haven’t been so bad. We might seem a bit like Dad’s Army to you professionals, but we definitely act as a deterrent.’

Gerry wanted to say they hadn’t been much of a deterrent on the night Lisa Bartlett was assaulted, but fortunately she was smart enough to realise before opening her mouth that it would be wiser to refrain. ‘I know, sir,’ she said. ‘And we really do appreciate your help.’

‘It’ll be a red letter day when that whole bloody Hollyfield Estate has been rased to the ground, but until then we have to live next to it.’

‘So you haven’t noticed any strangers or suspicious characters in the neighbourhood?’

‘No. Things have been fairly quiet lately.’

Gerry took the picture of Samir out of her briefcase. Banks had told her to ask about him whenever she talked to anyone in the area, no matter what she was talking to them about. She passed it over to Myers, and he made an expression of distaste as he looked at it.

‘The dead boy, I suppose?’ he said.

‘Yes. Have you ever seen him at all?’

‘Around here?’

‘Anywhere.’

‘No,’ said Myers, pushing the photo back over the wooden surface. ‘And I think I would have noticed. What would he be doing here? I thought his body was found on the East Side Estate?’

‘That’s correct,’ said Gerry. ‘But he wasn’t necessarily killed there. And we have no idea what he was doing in Eastvale. That’s what we’d like to find out.’

‘Do you think he had something to do with the other drug addict’s death? Is that what this is about?’

‘Other drug addict?’

‘This latest one. I’m assuming the boy was on drugs, too, or somehow involved?’

‘We have no evidence to suggest that, sir, or reason to think it.’ Gerry certainly wasn’t going to tell him about the cocaine in Samir’s pocket. That piece of information hadn’t been released to the media. ‘As far as I know, there’s no connection between the two. Maybe your son would know something?’

‘I can’t imagine Chris having anything to do with him, either. I mean, there’s the age difference, for a start. Eighteen-year-olds don’t usually hang out with younger kids. Besides, Chris is busy with his A-levels at the moment. We’re hoping he’ll get into Oxford. The teachers have high hopes for him.’

‘That’s excellent, sir. Where does he go to school?’

‘St Botolph’s.’

‘Ah.’ St Botolph’s was a minor public school in a moorland hollow a few miles north of Lyndgarth. It had an excellent reputation, and accepted day boys as well as boarders. Gerry knew that schools like St Botolph’s also took quite a few foreign students, and for a moment the idea passed through her mind that Samir could have been a pupil there. He was the right age, and he could easily have come from a wealthy Syrian family. But he hadn’t, as they had just discovered. ‘Do you know anything at all about Howard Stokes, the dead drug addict?’ she asked.

‘Me? Why would I? All I know is what I’ve heard on the news.’

Gerry showed him a photograph. ‘Have you seen him around?’

‘He was that scruffy old bloke on the mobility scooter, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s one way of describing him.’

Myers tapped the photo and nodded. ‘I thought so. We had a bit of trouble with him once, hanging around the playground in the park, scaring the kids.’

‘What did he do to scare them?’

‘It was just his being there. He didn’t have to do anything. His mere presence scared them. I mean, just look at the photo. Don’t you think he’s pretty scary?’

‘Right, sir.’ Gerry gathered her stuff together. ‘I’ll be off, then,’ she said. ‘Sorry to trouble you again. And thank you very much for your time.’

‘I’ll just run off that copy for you. Won’t be a sec.’

Myers disappeared upstairs. Gerry heard a humming sound, and he was back in no time waving a sheet of paper.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

Myers saw her to the door. ‘I hope you catch him,’ he said. ‘Whoever assaulted Lisa. Believe me, I know you have other serious demands on your time, but somehow, when it hits close to home, when it could have been one of your own...’

‘I understand, sir. And we are doing our best.’

When she had made her escape, Gerry took a deep breath and paused on her way back to Elmet Hill. She should have known what to expect from Myers, even though she had a lot of sympathy with his concerns. The police couldn’t patrol as they should, as they used to do. The bobby on the beat was a thing of the past, as the patrol car was quickly becoming, too. The money and the manpower just weren’t there. More and more local Neighbourhood Watches like Myers’s, and even private security companies, were having to fill the gaps. It was worse in the urban areas, of course, but there was plenty of crime in the counties these days, a lot of it due to drugs. And county lines.

When she got to the corner of the Close and Elmet Hill, instead of turning left back to North Market Street and the police station, she turned right, towards the park and the Hollyfield Estate beyond. One or two people still lived there, and they were more likely to have noticed anything unusual than the denizens of the hill.

Blaydon’s driver Frankie Wallace was an ex-middleweight boxer who had never amounted to much more than a second-rate scrapper in the ring. Fortunately for him, he had the brains to retire before he lost the capability to do so. He drifted into low-level criminal activity in the Glasgow gang scene for a while, working as a ‘debt collector’ for slum landlords and partaking in various other dodgy activities, including illegal gambling and protection rackets. After his second jail term, he came to what little senses he had left and gained honest employment first as a club bouncer, then as chauffeur-cum-bodyguard, first for a wealthy banker in London, then for Connor Clive Blaydon back up north. He was fifty-one years old and had been working for Blaydon for five years when Banks went to talk to him in his small terrace house just outside the York city centre.

‘Evening, Frankie,’ said Banks when a sweaty Wallace opened the door in his string vest and rugby trousers. ‘Been pounding the crap out of a punch bag?’

Wallace grunted. ‘I like to keep fit.’

‘Good for you.’ Banks couldn’t help noticing that Wallace did still look fit, more muscle than fat. His face was a mass of hardened scar tissue which probably didn’t even feel incoming punches, and his nose and left ear didn’t seem to have recovered from his years in the ring. ‘Remember me?’

‘I never forget a copper. You’re Banks, aren’t you? You did me once. Long time ago.’

‘That’s right. Good to know all those punches you let through your guard haven’t done your memory any harm. Can I come in?’

‘I suppose you’d better. Excuse the mess.’

The mess wasn’t quite as bad as Banks expected for a man of Wallace’s intelligence and social skills living alone, though it did smell a bit like a gym at closing time. The living room was untidy but clean, with a massive flat-screen TV dominating one corner. Its obvious focal point, though, was a glass case full of trophies: cups, shields, belts and gloves.

‘What is it you’re after?’ Wallace said when they had sat down.

‘A bit of information.’

‘I’ll no talk about my clients, if that’s what you mean. That’s privileged, like a doctor or a vicar.’

‘I understand you work exclusively for Connor Clive Blaydon these days?’

‘Aye.’

‘Works you hard, does he?’

‘Well, he doesn’t drive, himself, so I get plenty of practice, thank you.’

‘Where do you drive him?’

‘All over the place.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘No. It’s between him and me.’

‘How does it work?’

‘I don’t get you.’

‘Well, you don’t live on the premises. Are you on call?’

‘Oh, I see. Aye. He gives me a bell, and I’m there in twenty minutes, tops.’

‘Where do you keep the Merc? I didn’t see one out on the street.’

‘You must be joking. Car like that wouldn’t last five minutes around these parts. He keeps it at his place, and I drive over in my wee Toyota when he calls.’

‘You’d have to break a few speed limits to get there in twenty minutes from here.’

Wallace just glared at him. ‘Speeding now, is it?’

‘No. It’s the other part of your job I’m interested in.’

‘What other part?’

‘Messages, errands, muscle, bodyguard stuff.’

‘I don’t do anything wrong.’

‘Not saying you do.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So what do you want? I haven’t got all day.’

‘Answer my questions and it’ll be over a lot quicker.’

‘I am answering your questions, as best I can. You haven’t really asked any yet.’

‘Fair enough. Do you ever drive Blaydon to London?’

‘I told you—’

‘Oh, go on, answer me, Frankie. What harm can it do? Just in general. London’s a big place.’

Wallace muttered to himself for a moment, then said, ‘Aye, of course. The boss does a lot of business there. He’s got an office and all that. Nothing secret about it.’

‘What do you think of Leka Gashi?’

‘Come again.’

‘Leka Gashi. The Albanian.’

‘Can’t say I know anyone by that name.’

But judging by Wallace’s darkening expression and the tone of his voice, Banks guessed that was not the case. He filed it away in his mind for future reference. ‘Is there something secret about the places Blaydon asks you to drive him?’ he asked.

‘I didn’t say that. It’s just his business, that’s all. You’re putting words in my mouth.’

‘OK, Frankie, I’ll make it easy. Did you drive Connor Clive Blaydon up to Eastvale last Sunday evening? And now I do want straight answers or I’ll take you in.’

‘Aye. I drove him. What of it?’

‘Where did you drive him?’

‘That poncy French restaurant he goes to by the market square. Bloody nightmare driving around there, it is.’

‘There’s no parking, I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘So where did you park?’

‘Back of the market square.’

‘How long?’

‘About half seven to just before eleven, when he rang me to pick him up. Why?’

‘Long time to be sitting there by yourself. Don’t you get bored? How do you pass the time? Do you read Proust, do The Times crossword or something?’

‘Give me a break. It’s the modern age, Mr Banks.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m online. With my Galaxy pad. Got Netflix and everything.’

‘So you watch movies?’

‘Sometimes. Depends. Sometimes I can even get a live game of footie or rugby. Or I watch YouTube. Lots of stuff on there. Fights and all.’

‘And on Sunday?’

‘Downton Abbey. Seen it before, like, but it’s worth watching again.’ Frankie scratched his armpit. ‘I wouldn’t half mind giving that Lady Mary a good shag.’

Banks swallowed. ‘I’m sure she would appreciate it, Frankie. What about eating?’

Frankie leered. ‘That, too.’

‘I mean where did you go?’

‘Oh. One of those pubs in the market square. I don’t remember what it was called.’

‘The Bull? The Castle? The Queen’s Arms? The Red Lion?’

‘One of those.’

‘What did you have to eat?’

‘Steak and mushroom pie.’

‘And to drink?’

‘Coca-Cola. I never touch alcohol.’

‘Not even when you’re not driving?’

‘Never. I learned my lessons a long time ago.’

‘So apart from taking a meal break in one of the pubs on the market square, you sat in your car all evening?’

‘Until Mr Blaydon rang me.’

‘And then?’

‘Drove back to the restaurant, didn’t I? He was just around the corner. Would’ve been quicker if they’d walked to the car. Bloody pain in the arse getting in and out of that street, but what can I say, that’s my job.’

‘Was Mr Blaydon alone?’

‘No. He was with the Kerrigan brothers, Tommy and Timmy. Right couple of pillocks, those two, you ask me.’

‘I wouldn’t disagree,’ said Banks. ‘Did they get in the car with him?’

‘Aye. Expected me to drive them home.’

‘Where did you drop them off?’

‘At their place, just outside town. It was on our way, more or less.’

‘Anyone else with you?’

‘No.’

‘Had you picked the Kerrigans up on your way in?’

‘Nah. They’d driven in their own car, but they were too pissed to drive back, silly buggers. Right pair of girls’ blouses.’

‘Had Mr Blaydon had too much to drink?’

‘They were all a bit pissed, if you ask me. But the boss can hold his liquor.’

So much for the privileged nature of the chauffeur-passenger relationship. Banks decided to push it a bit further. ‘How did they behave towards one another in the car?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Were they chatting, laughing, telling jokes, that sort of thing?’

Wallace wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t think I don’t know your game. You’re not going to get me to tell you anything that was said, if that’s what you’re after.’

Banks spread his hands. ‘But it wouldn’t do any harm to tell me the general mood of your passengers, would it?’

Wallace eyed Banks and chewed on his lower lip for a while. Finally, he said, ‘Well, if you must know, that Tommy Kerrigan was pissed off about something, but he’s always on edge, the creepy little queer.’

‘About what?’

‘Can’t tell because I don’t know, and wouldn’t if I did.’

‘Was he upset with Mr Blaydon?’

‘Not specifically.’

‘So what was it about?’

‘I told you. I don’t know. I can tell you one thing, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Somebody had given him a thrashing.’

Annie had told Banks that Florence, the maître d’ at Le Coq d’Or, had mentioned the cut over Tommy Kerrigan’s eye and his bruised cheek. ‘Any idea how that happened?’ Banks asked.

‘No. It wasn’t mentioned. Least not while I was around. That’s what he was pissed off about, though. Silly wee bugger gets himself into a fight with that temper of his and blames Mr Blaydon.’

‘Is that what he was doing, blaming your boss?’

‘Well, he was certainly complaining to him.’

‘About whom?’

‘No idea. Whoever did it.’

Banks sighed. He wasn’t going to get much further with Frankie Wallace. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ he asked.

‘I think I’ve already told you too much,’ said Wallace.

‘I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. You haven’t really told me anything I’d need to follow up with Mr Blaydon.’

Wallace shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose. You done now?’

Banks stood up. ‘I think so.’ He paused at the door, Columbo-style. ‘Just one more thing, Frankie. You don’t happen to know anything about a bloke called Howard Stokes, do you?’

‘Stokes? No, I can’t say as I know the name. Why?’

‘Found dead on Hollyfield Lane a couple of days ago. Number twenty-six. Drug overdose.’

‘Happens a lot these days,’ said Wallace. ‘Nasty things, drugs. Never touch them, myself.’

‘Good for you,’ said Banks. ‘Only I understand the Kerrigans own the house he was found in, and your boss is heavily involved in the redevelopment plans for the area.’

‘Small world.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ said Banks, who had the distinct feeling that Wallace was lying about not knowing who Howard Stokes was as he closed the door and walked back to his car.

The Hotel Belgrade, where Faye Butler had said Keane stayed when he was in town, was easy to find. It occupied part of an elegant five-storey terrace near Fitzroy Square Garden, all white stucco facades behind black iron railings, ornate stonework, steps down to a basement level, heavy blue-panelled doors with frosted glass lunettes. The hotel had no kitchen or restaurant, only a small library bar in the basement, but just next door was a spacious bar and grill, very trendy judging by its popularity and the affluent and carefree demeanour of its clientele. The bar and grill had its own front entrance, as well as a door leading from the hotel’s cramped lobby.

Unlike larger hotel lobbies with their crowds and open spaces, The Belgrade wasn’t a place where Zelda felt she could hang around unnoticed, reading her book and keeping an eye out. Any unattached attractive woman with no reason for being there would probably be taken for a prostitute and asked to leave. But the bar and grill was perfect. Like the Italian restaurant it was spacious, dim and mostly crowded after work. It was casual enough that a person could sit and enjoy a couple of drinks without being pestered to order food, though their steak frites was excellent, she discovered, and the windows opened on the street outside.

Zelda sat in a corner mulling over the interview with Danvers and Deborah Fletcher again. Danvers had phoned that morning and told her abruptly that she was no longer needed, and she could go home if she wanted. But Raymond had told her he wouldn’t be back for perhaps another week, and she didn’t feel like being up in Lyndgarth all alone with her mind full of the Tadićs, Keane, Hawkins and bad memories, so she decided to stay on for a while longer and see what she could find out.

Worried that someone might be following her, Zelda had begun taking steps. She had seen enough films to know that stepping on or off a tube train at the last moment often worked, as did entering a shop by one set of doors and leaving by another, or if all else failed, simply jumping in a taxi. Evasive action tipped off your tail, of course, but she didn’t care. As she couldn’t see who, or how many, were following her — if any were — she didn’t know whether she had been successful or not in losing them. But it didn’t really matter. At least, not yet.

She always restricted herself to two glasses of wine. She didn’t mind getting tipsy in the right company, but if she was going to do what she set out to do, she needed to keep a clear head. There had been a period when she had taken to drink and drugs to help numb her pain. That had worked for a while, but she started to hate the way it made her feel, so she stopped. Doing so hadn’t given her much trouble, especially as it was after she had escaped the dark world of forced sex and was starting to carve out an existence as a London pavement artist, a few months before she met Raymond. By the time she met him, she was sober and drug-free, apart from the occasional joint they shared. She only wished cigarettes were as easy to give up, but she had tried and she couldn’t. It was especially annoying because she couldn’t smoke in her hotel room, or in bars and cafes, places she wanted to sit and relax — like now, in the bar and grill next door to Hotel Belgrade. How wonderful it would be to sip her wine along with the occasional inhalation of cigarette smoke. She had tried those silly vape things, but they had lasted about as long as nicotine gum.

She did her best to be unnoticeable that evening, dressing down in baggy clothes, tying her hair back, going without make-up — even wearing glasses — and it seemed to work. As far as most people were concerned, she was probably just another young office worker on her way home after a hard day’s filing or whatever, stopping for a drink or two to help smooth out the tensions of the day, or give her courage to face the husband and kids. The bar staff probably assumed she was a guest at the hotel. At least, nobody had pestered her so far, except a fairly large group asking if she would mind moving to a smaller table so that they could all sit together.

The people at the table next to hers were getting noisier as they reached the third or fourth drink mark. And there was loud music, or at least a thumping bass beat that passed itself off as music. Zelda was starting to feel the onset of a headache.

She had finished her second drink, paid the bill and was about to leave when, all of a sudden, she saw someone whose presence seemed to dampen the sound, charge the atmosphere and make everything feel as if it were at the wrong end of a telescope.

The tall, burly figure walked through the door from the hotel reception. Though he was wearing a crisp white linen suit, bright green shirt and purple tie, and had traded his lank and greasy black hair for closely-cropped salt-and-pepper, there was no doubt in Zelda’s mind that she was looking at Goran Tadić, one of the two men who had bundled her into a car when she left the orphanage in Chi¸sina˘u.

The little park was a real haven, Gerry thought as she passed by the children’s playground with its swings, roundabout, slide and monkey bars, and took a winding path down to the side of the narrow beck, where she sat on a bench under the weeping willows. The beck moved swiftly, but it was shallow enough and the water took on the light brown beer colour of its bed. A couple of small wooden bridges, one green and one white, led over to the other side, a swathe of mixed trees and shrubbery, beyond which lay Cardigan Drive and the Hollyfield Estate. A row of stepping stones poked out of the water about halfway between the bridges, and Gerry imagined the children had fun using them. At that time of evening, though, in school term time, there was hardly anyone around. One or two solitary dog-walkers passed her, nodding a hello as they went, but that was about it. It was odd to think that Lisa Bartlett was assaulted so nearby not too long ago. But even the most pleasant of spots can take on a whole new aspect after dark.

Gerry experienced a sense of calm and peace she rarely felt in the town. Even though she could hear distant voices and the traffic on Cardigan Drive, she felt enveloped by nature, enchanted by birdsong and immersed in a green world of willow, ash and holly. She watched tits and finches flitting from branch to branch, saw magpies perched high in the trees and heard the loud cries of the crows as they flung themselves into the sky like harbingers of fast-falling night. The flower beds were a riot of colour. The May blossom had been and gone — coming earlier each year — though a few of the shrivelled blooms still littered the path and grass along with pussy willow and dried catkins.

Gerry had read an article in one of the papers recently about something called ‘forest bathing’, how it could relax you and remove the stress from your life. You just immerse yourself in a forest. The Japanese called it shinrin-yoku, and its beneficial effects apparently had something to do with the chemicals trees release into the air. Maybe she would try it. She was all for using her senses to soak up the atmosphere of the woods and leave her cares behind. Maybe the entire Homicide and Major Crimes Unit should come out and try it. She could just imagine Detective Superintendent Banks getting in touch with his inner forest.

She left the bench and tottered across the stepping stones, arms spread like a tightrope walker, and managed to make it to the other side without getting wet. There, she followed the path for another few yards through some dense shrubbery, after which she emerged, rather disappointingly, at Cardigan Drive, which she crossed by the traffic lights to get to Hollyfield Lane. The old estate looked more like a bomb site than a residential area, and pretty soon there would be no trace of it left whatsoever. It had been built on a simple grid pattern, with one main road, Hollyfield Lane, leading west, off which radiated the side streets. The Lane eventually petered out into weeds and wasteland, and beyond that, Gerry could see a lone yellow mechanical digger standing in a field, as if waiting impatiently to get to work.

She passed number twenty-six, the house where Howard Stokes’s body had been found. The CSIs clearly hadn’t finished there yet, as the place was still cordoned off by police tape and a uniformed constable stood on guard. He recognised Gerry and said hello as she passed.

Gerry started at the far end of Hollyfield Lane, by the waste ground, on the opposite side of the street, and made her way back slowly. Most of the houses were empty, but occasionally she spotted a pair of curtains, and she would knock at the door. No one she talked to admitted to recognising Samir or knowing anything about the man who lived at number twenty-six, except that he was old and scruffy and went about on a mobility scooter. But when she got a bit closer, to number forty-seven, a large woman in her late sixties with frizzy grey hair and a brightly-patterned muumuu dress, who clearly kept her eye on the street, invited her in. The walls of the living room were covered in paintings, most of them original works, as far as Gerry could tell. Watercolours, oils, montages of found objects. It was like a miniature art gallery.

‘I was out when one of your lot called the other day,’ she said, wedging herself into a well-worn armchair. ‘Staying with a friend in Carlisle. They left a note, like, and a contact number, but I haven’t got around to ringing it yet. I’ll be moving out after the weekend — got some nice sheltered accommodation near the river on the other side of town — so as you can see, I’ve got quite a bit of sorting out to do. I tell you, that Marie Kondo’s got nothing on me. I’ve already thanked three sacks full of stuff for the joy they’ve given me and dropped them off at Age Concern. It can be quite heartbreaking sorting through a lifetime’s old photo albums and love letters, you know. Quite heartbreaking.’

‘I’m sure it can be,’ said Gerry, who didn’t have any love letters to sort through.

The woman, who introduced herself as Margery Cunningham, leaned forward to pat the chair opposite her. Gerry sat there.

‘When you’re old, people can’t imagine you ever being young,’ the woman went on. ‘But I had a life. Oh, my, did I have a life. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.’ She pointed to one of the paintings, a watercolour of a nude reclining on a sofa. ‘I was a muse. That’s me when I was twenty-three,’ she said. ‘Hardly believe it now, would you?’

‘You were certainly very lovely,’ said Gerry.

‘You’re too kind. I was just like you. Only my hair wasn’t ginger, of course. But you’re a very pretty girl. You’d make a fine artist’s model.’

Gerry blushed. ‘Thank you.’

‘You have the look of those Pre-Raphaelite girls about you. A little sad, a little lost, maybe, but very strong and very beautiful. Sensual. Full of character. I should know. I used to live with an artist.’

Gerry groaned inwardly. She had often thought that if one more person compared her to a Pre-Raphaelite model she would hit them, but she wasn’t going to hit Margery Cunningham, of course. Ray Cabbot, Annie’s father, was always telling her the same thing, especially when he’d had a few drinks and wanted to paint her in the nude. In all fairness, though, he had produced a wonderful sketch of her, fully clothed, which she had framed and hung on the wall of her tiny flat. Annie usually brought him back to earth, while his girlfriend Zelda would sit there with an enigmatic smile on her face. Gerry didn’t get Zelda at all. Naturally, all the men were falling over themselves to be of service to her, even Banks, and Gerry knew something of her troubled history, but she had never been able to communicate with her on the few occasions they had met, finding her distant and unresponsive much of the time.

‘I was just wondering if you knew Mr Stokes at number twenty-six,’ Gerry said.

‘I thought that’s who it would be about. I wouldn’t say I knew him, but we’d certainly say good morning if we met in the street. He was a gentleman, was Mr Stokes, no matter what they say about him in the papers.’

‘What have they said about him?’

‘You know. The drugs and all. I never saw him take any drugs, and he never did anyone any harm. And where’s the harm, I say, if you choose to spend your days in cloud cuckoo land? Makes a damn sight more sense than spending them in the real world, the way it’s going these days, I can tell you. Or spending your life being a nuisance to others, stabbing people and beating people up. He wasn’t always on the scooter, you know.’

‘How long?’

‘A year. Less. It was mostly the diabetes, see. He told me about it once. Gets into your feet, it does. I think he lost a couple of toes. But before, like, when he used to walk around on his own, I never once saw him stumble or stagger. And he always said hello. Like I said, a gentleman.’

It didn’t take much to be a gentleman in Margery Cunningham’s world, Gerry thought. ‘Was he ever suspected of any crimes in the neighbourhood?’

‘Believe it or not, we didn’t really have much crime, love. Nobody had anything, you see. Not anything worth stealing, at any rate. If thieves wanted good pickings, they’d head off through the park and up the hill.’ She laughed, coughed and patted her chest. ‘But if you’re asking did Mr Stokes cause any trouble around here, then my answer is no. Not that I know of. He didn’t have any visitors except when that grandson of his was staying.’

‘His grandson?’

‘Well, I assume that’s who he was. Young lad, anyway. Looked about the right age.’

‘Did this grandson visit often?’

‘Every week or so. Usually stayed a night or two.’

Gerry brought out her photo of Samir and asked, ‘Was this him?’

Margery Cunningham shook her head. ‘No, dearie. The boy I saw wasn’t dark-skinned. I know who this one is, like, and what happened. Saw his picture in the papers. Terrible. But I’ve never seen him around here.’

Disappointed, Gerry put the photograph away. ‘His name was Samir,’ she said, though she didn’t know why she said it. ‘Can you describe this grandson?’

‘He was a typical teenager, pleasant enough, but a bit shifty, if you know what I mean. Always seemed as if he was hiding something or up to something. But a lot of kids are like that, aren’t they, always looking as if they’ve had their hand in the piggy bank? Didn’t go out much. Rode a bike sometimes. Always wearing a backpack.’

‘What colour hair?’

‘Fair. And cut short, like they have it these days. I must say I preferred it when I was a young lass and all the lads had long hair.’

She got a faraway look in her eye, and Gerry hurried along to avoid a ‘those were the days’ digression. ‘Tall or short?’

‘Medium.’

‘Fat or thin?’

‘Thin.’

‘Clothes?’

‘Jeans and T-shirt when it was warm enough. Usually with something written on it. The T-shirt, that is.’

‘Can you remember what?’

‘No. There were several different ones. Images of the devil or skeletons. That sort of thing.’

‘Like heavy metal images?’

‘Yes. Like Black Sabbath used to wear.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Trainers, mostly. White. I don’t know what brand. Little ticks on them. They all look the same to me.’

Nike, Gerry noted. ‘And when it was cooler?’

‘One of those hoodie jackets. The ones that make everyone look like a criminal.’

‘What kind of a bicycle did he ride?’

‘Now you’re asking me. All I can say is, it wasn’t like those in that Tour de France that came through here a few years ago. It had straight handlebars, for a start, not those bent ones, like goats’ horns.’

‘Do you remember what colour it was?’

‘Red. Bright red.’

‘You’re doing really well, Mrs Cunningham. How long ago was he here?’

‘Margery, please, love. A while ago. I haven’t seen him for two or three weeks now. Maybe longer. Time seems to go by a lot faster these days.’

‘Is it unusual for him not to visit for so long?’

‘I suppose so. Like I said, he used to come up more often than that.’

‘And how long had he been visiting Mr Stokes?’

‘Past year or so. Back and forth.’

‘Do you know where he went when he wasn’t here?’

‘No idea, love. We never talked beyond saying good morning. He didn’t come and kiss me goodbye. Home to his mum and dad, I suppose, for all I know.’

‘Did he have people visiting him?’

‘Yes. Odd that, really. When Mr Stokes was there by himself, you’d never see anyone there from one day to the next. But the lad had quite a few visitors. And he was hardly off that mobile phone of his. I’ve no time for them, myself.’

‘What kind of visitors did the boy have?’

‘Mostly kids his own age, or older. Some of them seemed a bit seedy. All sorts, really. They never caused any trouble, though. Mostly they didn’t stay long.’

‘What did Mr Stokes have to say about it?’

‘Nothing. Not to me, at any rate.’ She paused. ‘Oh, dear. How can I say this without sounding judgemental? I mean, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but...’

‘Go on, Mrs Cunningham.’

‘Margery, please. Well, it’s just that Mr Stokes was a bit... like he wasn’t all there. He was in his own world. I don’t know what you’d call it. We used to say retarded, but I don’t know what the word is now. But it wasn’t his fault.’

‘What wasn’t?’

‘That he hadn’t had much education, though he did like to read a lot. He was a bit childlike, if you know what I mean. I think maybe that young lad took advantage of him, having his friends round and all.’

Gerry was getting the distinct impression that this was a textbook county lines operation. But what had happened to the operation? Perhaps the young man in question would be back. Or perhaps he had been replaced by Samir. But Margery Cunningham said she hadn’t seen Samir around the neighbourhood, and she had no reason to lie.

‘Do you remember the boy’s name?’ Gerry asked.

‘Never knew it.’

‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

‘I think so.’

‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’

‘No, love. I’m sorry.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Do you know, I’ve been here over twenty-five years, but I shan’t be sad to leave. It used to be a nice estate, the Hollyfield. Good people. Honest. Decent. For the most part. You got the odd bad ’un. You always do, don’t you? But look at it now. Pah. No. Take me to my sheltered flat. That’s what I say. I’ll live out my days quite happily there. The sooner they knock this bloody place to the ground, the better.’

That was the second time today Gerry had heard that sentiment expressed, she realised as she headed back towards the park.

Tadić certainly appeared more presentable than the scruffy, unwashed animal Zelda remembered, as no doubt befit his elevated status in the organisation, but it was him. She was certain. Put an ogre in an expensive suit and it was still an ogre. Though she tried to keep a grip on herself, she couldn’t help but grab her book and her shoulder bag and rush towards the street exit. As she did so, her bag knocked over the empty wine glass, and it shattered on the floor. His head jerked in her direction. She felt a chill run through her, as if she had inadvertently awoken a sleeping snake or crocodile, some sort of reptilian beast that operated on instinct alone. She kept going, ignoring the nasty looks she got from people she bumped into, until she was out in the street. Once there, she merged with the flow of pedestrians heading towards Marylebone Road and Great Portland Street Underground. She had no idea where she was going, only that her breath was tight in her chest, her heart was pounding dangerously fast and she had to get away from the Hotel Belgrade.

Every now and then she glanced back to see if Tadić was following her, but she didn’t see him. Why should he be? It was nothing, she tried to tell herself. A woman gets up and knocks her glass over by accident. People react to the sound, that’s all. Besides, the last time he had seen Zelda, she had been just seventeen years old. She looked very different now, and her nose hadn’t been broken then. Besides, context is everything. He wouldn’t recognise her, and he certainly wouldn’t expect to bump into her in a London hotel bar. As far as she knew, they had had no contact after the breaking house in Vršac, and he must have broken in hundreds of girls after her.

Not that he had waited until Vršac to begin the process. They had a twelve- or thirteen-hour drive across Romania first, and Goran Tadić had started as soon as they got on the highway, messing with her clothes, groping her breasts in the back of the car. She had tried to resist but whenever she did, he would hit her again. And though he couldn’t take her valuable virginity, it didn’t stop him from anally raping her. As the car sped through the wild and mountainous countryside of Transylvania, she could do nothing but lie there face down on the car seat and take it. All she could remember now was the pain, the smell of the dreadful cigar his brother was smoking as he drove and the relentless thumping and surging of the American rap music playing in the car. Finally, she had passed out and only came to a while later, when Goran Tadić was in the driver’s seat and his brother Petar in the back with her, ready to take his turn. Again she fought, and again it was to no avail. Even as early as that, she began to learn how they only hurt her more if she fought them, how to find that place outside herself, to watch the actions disinterestedly, as if from a great distance, and to numb all feeling. But she wasn’t quite so skilled at the start as she became later. This was before she learned to live with pain, to float inside it. It hurt. She bled. She cried.

She tried to escape through a cafe’s toilet window when they stopped for burgers somewhere near Brasov, but Goran was waiting, a cruel smile on his face, and she was punished for that. And so they had their way with her all the way from Chişinău to Vršac. They crossed two international borders, first into Romania and from there into Serbia, and in neither case did the border guards take the slightest interest in these two men and the clearly distraught young girl they had in the car with them. No questions were asked; they were simply waved through. Often, she wondered later whether money had changed hands — it wouldn’t have surprised her — but she decided it hadn’t. It was just the way things were.

And there he was again, in the flesh, the man who had done all that to her, just walking casually into a trendy London bar in an expensive suit and gaudy shirt, cool as anything, not a care in the world, lord of all he surveyed. She relived that journey through hell as she wandered among the anonymous crowds of the London evening, not knowing where she was going, only that she had to get away, that every good thing she had built for herself since her escape felt as if it was crumbling inside her.

Zelda travelled aimlessly on the tube from line to line, stop to stop. Occasionally, someone would ask her if she was all right, and she would respond with a mechanical nod and a forced smile. What could they do? What did they know, safe in their comfortable middle-class lives with nothing more to worry about than their mortgage payments and the children’s exam results? Finally, she found herself at Waterloo and walked back to her hotel.

The rooftop bar was still open, and by then she felt she needed a drink more than she had in a long time. She ordered a large vodka and tonic instead of wine and lifted the glass to her mouth, hand shaking. She must have looked like a serious alcoholic because people stayed away from her. Then she had another drink and sat there staring out at the night skyline, the way she had stared at the dawn skyline in the morning, just a few days ago, when she woke from the bad dreams. Here, from the height of the roof, she had a different view — the Eye; the Houses of Parliament, lit up all gold; Big Ben covered in scaffolding, but always there was the river, its currents like dark sinews twisting, distorting and knotting the reflections of the city lights the way she felt twisted, distorted and knotted inside.

The music was late evening light jazz, and what few conversations there were around her were hushed. It was seduction time, and the young couples were edging closer together, a light touch of thigh to thigh here, an arm casually brushing a breast there. Zelda knew all about it. She had done the seductive sex as well as suffered the violent kind. It was how she had made her living — their living — in Paris, and how she had finally made her escape from that world.

After the dreadful car journey across Romania, Zelda remembered being left alone in a filthy room for days — she wasn’t sure exactly how many — with her meals delivered, black bread, borscht, gruel...

And then, one day, without warning, she was taken into another room, larger, cleaner, with a large bed. After a few minutes a man came in. He was old and fat, and he smelled of fried chicken. He wasn’t rough or violent — he was quite gentle, really — but he took what he wanted and left her crying. That was how she lost her virginity. She learned later that it had been auctioned off, and the fat man had won. Apparently, he always won; he was one of the wealthiest businessmen in town, the owner of a chain of fried chicken restaurants.

By the time Zelda got to bed that night, she knew one thing for certain: now that she had seen Goran Tadić again, she had to kill him.