Many Rivers to Cross

Chapter 8

The coffee and doughnuts lay spread out on the large oval table in the boardroom on Friday morning. In addition to the core team, also present were DS Stefan Nowak, Crime Scene Manager; Vic Manson, fingerprints expert; and Dr Jasminder ‘Jazz’ Singh, their toxicology, blood and DNA specialist from the lab. Everyone present seemed tired; Thursday had been a long day.

‘You’ve got some good news for us, I hope, Stefan?’ Banks said to DS Nowak.

‘Yes,’ said Nowak. ‘We’ve been able to link the dead boy, Samir, with the Stokes house on the Hollyfield Estate. Naturally, we can’t tell you when he was there, but he definitely was there.’

‘Was he killed there?’

‘Unlikely,’ said the diminutive Jazz Singh. ‘No blood other than Howard Stokes’s turned up. And very little of that. If Samir had been killed there, you’d expect... well, you’d expect to see blood.’

‘Unless someone cleaned it up?’ Banks suggested.

‘Of course. That’s where the Luminol came in handy. We were very thorough. Believe me, nobody can do a perfect clean-up.’

‘Thanks, Jazz,’ said Banks, reaching for a doughnut. ‘So what did you find?’

‘Stefan’s team found several hairs with follicles intact on the back of one of the armchairs. They found hairs on the backs of both chairs, actually, but the other ones belonged to Howard Stokes.’

‘What about the mattresses?’

‘Howard Stokes’s hair on one, and someone else’s on the other, though it had been turned over, and the mattress itself had been stripped of sheets. It didn’t look as if it had been used recently. Not Samir’s hair, by the way. Blond and short. There were no follicles, so we couldn’t run DNA.’

‘It must belong to the boy Margery Cunningham told me about yesterday,’ said Gerry. ‘The one she thought was Stokes’s grandson. The one who came and went. He rode around on a red bicycle and had a lot of visitors.’

‘Likely,’ said Banks. ‘And if there were no traces of Samir on the mattress, the odds are that he didn’t spend a night in the house. As he was seen by several people arriving in Eastvale on Sunday evening, we have to assume that he didn’t spend very long there at all.’ He turned back to Jazz. ‘Anything more?’

‘That’s it, really,’ she said. ‘The hairs on the chair back contained DNA that matched that of Samir Boulad.’

‘And only his?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s no room for error?’

‘One in 1000 million.’

Banks smiled. ‘I’ll take that as a no. Excellent news, Jazz. And quick work. Thanks a lot. I can’t say I know what this all means yet, but it’s the best lead we’ve had so far. It gives us a solid line on inquiries to pursue around Hollyfield. Have another doughnut.’

Jazz grinned and grabbed a raspberry-centred doughnut and poured herself more coffee. ‘Obviously Samir’s body provided us with an excellent DNA sample,’ she said. ‘And the match from the hair follicle was also a good source. It made my job a lot easier.’

‘So Samir was in the same house as Stokes at some point, and he was there long enough to sit down in the armchair but not to sleep on the mattress. What we don’t know is whether they were both in the house at the same time, or when this was.’

‘I think we can assume they must have been there together at some point,’ said Annie. ‘After all, it was Stokes’s house, and he didn’t seem the type to get out and about that much. And it seems likely Samir was there after he was seen in town with his backpack and jacket.’

‘Stokes did go and sit in the park and read sometimes,’ said Gerry. ‘Apparently, he never bothered anyone, but the Elmet Hill crowd didn’t approve of his presence there. Granville Myers said he scared the kiddies.’

‘Did you talk to the Neighbourhood Watch?’

‘Yes, guv. That was the bloke who runs it: Granville Myers. He’s in charge along with Lisa Bartlett’s dad, Gus.’

‘Anything?’

‘Claims to know nothing about what goes on in the park or on the Hollyfield Estate. He seemed a bit defensive when it came to his son, Chris, so I did a bit of rooting around. Seems Chris Myers is in his final year as a day student at St Botolph’s, sitting his A-levels at the moment, along with Lisa Bartlett’s brother Jason. Chris has his own car to drive himself to school and back each day. Usually gives Jason a lift. He’s bright. Expected to take a place at Oxford. Anyway, I seemed to remember he was involved in something a while ago, so I just checked back through the old incident reports and discovered that last year Chris Myers got caught — along with several of his fellow pupils — at a noisy student party near Eastvale College, where drugs were present, mostly ecstasy and marijuana. They all got off lightly, a slap on the wrist, and for what it’s worth, Myers had no drugs in his possession. Apparently, the quantities were small and they were doing no harm.’

‘Interesting,’ said Banks. ‘Youthful high jinks, most likely, but let’s keep young Chris and Jason in mind as regards the drug connection. They might know a bit more about what went on in number twenty-six Hollyfield Lane than their parents can tell us.’

‘Right, guv,’ said Gerry.

‘Let’s move on. There are still no sightings of Samir in Eastvale before the Sunday he was killed, right, which — assuming he would have stayed the night if he’d come before — goes along with not finding traces of him on the mattress and pillow in the spare room. So what do we make of all this?’

‘That Stokes was cuckooed?’ Gerry suggested. ‘And that Samir just arrived at Hollyfield Lane on Sunday evening, for the first time, to sell drugs. That something went wrong.’

‘A replacement cuckoo, then?’ said Banks.

‘I think so,’ Gerry said. ‘The other boy had been gone about two or three weeks, according to Margery Cunningham. Though she did say her sense of time might be a bit off. It was a while, anyway. It probably took them that long to get everything organised and set up again.’

‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘So it was all change in the county line. Someone took it over.’

‘The Albanians?’ suggested Annie. ‘Along with Blaydon and the Kerrigans?’

‘Possibly. But was it a hostile takeover, or what? What happened to the other boy, the fair-haired one?’

‘Well,’ Annie replied, ‘both Howard Stokes and Samir are dead. Even if Stokes did die of a genuine heroin overdose, it still all points towards a drug war on some level. And I’d say that it is pretty hostile.’

‘So whoever got displaced might have been taking revenge by murdering Samir?’

‘Maybe,’ said Annie.

‘And it could even have been the fair-haired lad who did it?’

‘Again,’ said Annie, ‘I don’t think that’s beyond the bounds of possibility. Either him or his controller down in Leeds probably came up and did it. Remember, we have a bus driver who saw Samir get off a bus from Leeds, and they would have been in a position to know where he was going.’

‘Where does Blaydon fit in?’ Banks asked.

‘Blaydon doesn’t live in Leeds,’ said Annie, ‘and he has a respectable veneer. I still can’t really see him running a county line drug operation.’

‘Me, neither,’ said Banks. ‘But I can see him being somehow involved, doing a favour for someone who did, someone he wants to impress, who may be in overall charge of a number of county lines.’

‘The Albanians again?’

‘Very likely. Leka Gashi and his pals. And Blaydon was either trying to ingratiate himself, or he owed them one. We already know he has a history with Gashi going back to Corfu ten years ago, and their possible collusion in the murder of Blaydon’s business partner at the time, Norman Peel. I think we’d better have another chat with Mr Blaydon soon.’ Banks glanced over at Vic Manson, who seemed as if he had something to add. ‘Vic, you found Samir’s fingerprints in the house, didn’t you?’

Manson nodded. ‘Others, too. It’s kept us busy for quite a while. Stokes, naturally, and several unidentified sets.’

‘Any matches so far?’

‘A couple. I put them through IDENT1. One, so far, is a match with prints from the break-in at The Crown and Anchor last month, and another set are a match for a lad on file we arrested for dealing E around the college towards the end of last year.’

‘Which would seem to point towards the Stokes house being used as a county lines distribution centre,’ Banks said. ‘Good work, Vic. You, too, Jazz.’

‘There’s more,’ Vic Manson said.

Banks raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

‘We still don’t know who did The Crown and Anchor break-in, and the prints don’t help us with that, but the lad who was arrested for dealing got a suspended sentence, and he’s still in the Eastvale area. Name of Cleary. Tyler Cleary.’

‘Got an address?’

‘Can’t say for sure if he’s still there.’

‘It’s a start. Gerry?’

‘I’ll find him and talk to him, guv.’

‘There’s something else that might interest you,’ Manson said.

‘Yes?’

‘I remember when we went in through the back, the evening the two lads found Howard Stokes...’

‘Right,’ said Banks.

‘Well, DC Masterson mentioned something about a boy who’d been seen hanging around the house before, and that he rode a red bicycle.’

‘That’s right,’ Gerry said. ‘That’s what Margery Cunningham told me, at any rate. The fair-haired lad rode around on a red bicycle. Most likely delivering drugs, filling the orders.’

‘Well, there’s a pile of rubbish in the backyard,’ Manson said, ‘and if I remember rightly, one of the items half-buried in it is a red bicycle frame. It’s a long shot. It might not be the one, but...’

‘Christ,’ said Annie. ‘I went in through the front the other night, and I had no reason to search the backyard. Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Banks. ‘Well spotted, Vic.’

Manson grinned. ‘It’s over in the lab right now. There’s a chance we’ll be able to get some dabs. Blondie might be in the system.’

‘Absolutely. And Gerry, maybe you can keep digging around Elmet Hill and Hollyfield, now that we know Samir was in the Stokes house for sure, however briefly.’

‘Right, guv,’ said Gerry.

Banks stood up. ‘One more thing. Annie, will you put someone on tracking all the CCTV available around the hill and Hollyfield areas for last Sunday evening? Get them on it ASAP, and gently remind them there’s overtime in the budget. I doubt there’ll be much of value, but now we know where to look and what to look for, we might find something interesting.’

When Zelda woke early the following morning, she had a splitting headache, and the bright sun shining through her hotel window didn’t help at all. She had forgotten to close the curtains. With an effort, she pushed herself out of bed and closed them. She found some paracetamol in her bag and swallowed three with a glass of water. Then she lay down again. She couldn’t go back to sleep, she knew that; she could only hope that the headache would fade and that she would stop feeling sorry for herself. If she was going to get any further in her endeavour, she was going to have to focus. Her reaction last night had been instinctive, she knew; the memories that rushed back on her seeing Goran Tadić had been a visceral tsunami. And so she had run. She hadn’t been able to help herself. Accept it. Failure. That was nothing new to her. But get over it. Get a grip.

What would Modesty Blaise have done? she asked herself. Modesty Blaise wouldn’t have let herself get into that situation to start with. And if she had, Willie would have come to the rescue. But Zelda didn’t have a Willie Garvin. She had a feeling there weren’t any Willie Garvins in the real world.

So she lay there as the paracetamol slowly took effect and did nothing for the rest of that day but lounge around in bed, watch television, drink a lot of water and order room service.

By seven o’clock she was feeling human again and ventured down to the hotel dining room for her evening meal. As she toyed with her stuffed chicken breast and sipped her mineral water, she began to think about a plan. She realised that she had wanted to find Keane because he could lead her to the Tadić brothers, whom she wanted to kill. One more than the other: Goran. Perhaps the loss of his brother would be suffering enough for Petar.

But she had no plan.

She took out her Moleskine and worked through the details. Writing it all down was a risk, but it was how she worked best; besides, she had no intention of letting anyone else read it, and she knew quite well that if she did go through with it, no body would ever be found, and there would be no investigation.

When Zelda thought of the task ahead in those terms, she felt ready to give up. She ordered a coffee. The alternative would be to admit defeat and go to Alan and tell him where she had located Goran Tadić, who would almost certainly lead him to Keane. Let the police deal with the lot of them. But it still came down to trust. She might trust Alan, but he was one small cog in a large machine, and she didn’t trust that machine one bit. All it took was one man, a whisper in the right ear, and you wouldn’t see Petar and Goran for dust. Or Keane. And even if there wasn’t an informer in the ranks, which she very much doubted, then the evidence against them — if any was found — would be lost or destroyed, or a jury would be nobbled. Somehow or other, the course of justice would be perverted, and they would walk away scot-free.

So she had to regain her resolve, harden herself. There was only her, and she had to get close to Goran Tadić and do it herself.

Which led to one more important question:

Because if he knew who she was and didn’t let on, she would be walking into a deathtrap.

In addition to various rental properties around town, the Kerrigan brothers also owned a nightclub and a video arcade on opposite sides of the market square. They had their offices in the club, which used to be known as the Bar None until they took it over and refurbished and rebranded it as The Vaults. It was an unimaginative name, perhaps, but they had brought in flashy new lighting and cocktails with cheeky names, like ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Between the Sheets’, and sold mostly imported bottled beer. They also employed a local DJ keen to make a name for himself on the national scene, and the kids flocked in. There wasn’t much else to do in Eastvale after ten o’clock, especially if you were too pissed to drive to Newcastle, Leeds or Manchester, where there were better clubs.

The Vaults was located under the shops across the cobbled square from the Queen’s Arms and the police station. Banks walked down the steps at ten o’clock that Friday night, when the place was just opening, flashed his warrant card at the bouncer and headed past the long bar with its array of coloured bottles and glasses, across the dance floor with its disco ball and revolving lights, to the offices at the back. He gave a shudder as he remembered the last time he had been there, when it was still called the Bar None, to a crime scene involving his then chief constable’s daughter, Emily Riddle, found dead from a batch of poisoned cocaine in the ladies’ toilet.

Fortunately, the music wasn’t too loud so early in the night, and the DJ hadn’t begun his fierce sampling routines, where a snatch of an old Elvis song might appear under the robotic rhythm and synth sounds of an electro dance number.

Once through the door, he could hardly hear the noise of the club at all. He knocked on the door marked PRIVATE and entered to find Timmy Kerrigan alone at his desk.

Kerrigan stood up. ‘Mr Banks. An unexpected pleasure. Please, sit down. Take a load off.’ He moved an office chair for Banks to sit on. Banks sat. ‘You should have told me you were coming.’

‘What would you have done, Timmy? Organised a brass band?’

Timmy Kerrigan just laughed. It came out as a giggle, the way most of his laughs did.

‘No Tommy tonight?’ Banks asked.

Kerrigan sat down again and swivelled his chair to face Banks. ‘He’s got other business, down in the big city. We’re not Siamese twins, you know. Not joined at the hip, or anywhere else, for that matter.’

‘You’ll have to do, then.’

‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Timmy Kerrigan was the size of a rugby prop forward, but gone to fat. Short golden curls topped a plump round face with a disarmingly youthful peaches and cream complexion. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded and guarded. He must have been in his fifties, but he looked as if he had never had to shave. He was wearing his trademark navy pinstripe suit with the handkerchief poking out of the top pocket and a psychedelic waistcoat, quite dizzying, its buttons straining tight against his stomach.

His younger brother, Tommy, Banks remembered, was very different — long, thin, lugubrious, one milky eye from a badly thrown dart or an accident with a knitting needle, depending on whose version you believed, cropped dark hair and a gaunt, pockmarked face. They always made Banks think of Laurel and Hardy, though the resemblance was merely a matter of size and shape.

Though they looked to be a comic duo, and it was very tempting to laugh at them, you did so at some risk. They were smart businessmen, local celebrities in their way, and had bought up quite a bit of Eastvale over the years. They weren’t without political clout on the town council or in the planning offices. No wonder they had proved useful to Connor Clive Blaydon in his Elmet Centre development. If you wanted to develop anything around Eastvale, you could do a lot worse than have the Kerrigans on your side.

But behind the respectable facade, Banks knew, lay corruption, bribery, blackmail, intimidation. And it didn’t end there. Though there was no hard evidence, the Kerrigans were also suspected of having their hand in drugs and prostitution, and that, Banks thought, was where the strongest connection with Blaydon came in. And perhaps also the link with Gashi.

Kerrigan got to his feet again. ‘Pardon my manners. You just took me by surprise. Would you like a drink? Drop of single malt, perhaps?’

Banks saw the bottle of Scapa on the cocktail cabinet. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said.

Kerrigan poured them both a healthy measure and sat down again. Banks took a sip and sighed. ‘Lovely stuff,’ he said. ‘I’ll get to the point. I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder we had here a few days ago.’

‘That young lad found in the bin? Terrible business. I sometimes wonder what this town is coming to.’

‘And the suspicious death of Howard Stokes.’

‘Come again. I haven’t heard about that one.’

‘It wasn’t as big a headline. Old junkie. Died of an overdose.’

Kerrigan shrugged. ‘Must happen all the time.’

‘Thing is, he died in one of your houses.’

‘He did? Which one?’

‘Hollyfield Lane. Number twenty-six.’

‘But that whole area’s condemned. It’s been scheduled for redevelopment.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Banks. ‘But I’m sure you know too that there are still one or two people hanging on there, waiting for rehousing.’

‘Well, that’s terrible,’ said Kerrigan. ‘But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me? I’m not the bloody rent collector. Not any more. Anyone who’s left isn’t paying a penny. That’s the deal. Surely you can’t hold me responsible for the actions of my tenants?’

‘Not at all,’ said Banks. ‘I simply wondered if you knew about it.’

‘Well, no, I didn’t.’

Banks fished photos of Samir and Stokes from his briefcase and held them out to Kerrigan. ‘Recognise either of these faces?’

Kerrigan studied the photos one at a time and passed them back. ‘No, sorry.’

It was hard to tell with habitual liars like Kerrigan, but Banks got a feeling he wasn’t lying this time. ‘You were dining at Le Coq d’Or on Sunday evening with Connor Clive Blaydon, weren’t you?’

‘Yes. We had some business to discuss.’

‘The Elmet Centre?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. That was our main area of interest. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’

‘Who is the Albanian?’

‘Who?’

‘The Albanian. I understand your brother referred to an Albanian at some point during the evening.’

Kerrigan frowned. His skin looked like pink plastic. ‘I didn’t hear anything like that.’

‘He had some bruising on his face. A cut.’

‘Oh, that. Minor disagreement at a business meeting. That’s Tommy all over. You might remember, he’s a bit of a hothead.’

‘An Elmet Centre meeting?’

‘I don’t recollect the exact circumstances. You’d have to ask him.’

‘And he’s out of town.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was it the Albanian he disagreed with? Gashi.’

‘It may have been an Albanian who thumped him. I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Tommy’s a bit of a racist. I try to talk to him, but you know what it’s like with some people. Attitudes like that, they’re entrenched. We argue all the time. He’s a Leaver, and I’m a Remainer. How’s that for a divided household?’

Banks sipped some whisky. ‘It must give rise to some pretty lively arguments.’

‘You don’t say.’

‘Anyway, we think this boy Samir might have been connected with drugs, and as we know Mr Blaydon is connected with an Albanian drug lord called Leka Gashi, we wondered if you might have run into this fellow, too?’

‘Gashi? No. You mentioned him earlier. But then, I can’t say I know any Albanians. Or anything about drugs. As far as I know, Connor’s a property developer. Simple as that.’

‘Nothing’s quite as simple as that, Timmy. The Albanians are moving into the drugs trade here in a big way, taking over local supplies, county lines, the lot. They’ve got direct links to the Colombian cartels and the ’Ndrangheta, the Calabrian Mafia.’

‘I must say, you sound as if you know your stuff, Mr Banks. I can tell you’ve done your homework. Then, that’s your job. But this is all way outside my area of expertise.’

‘Which is?’

‘Why, club management, of course. And the video arcade business.’

‘And Tommy?’

‘The same. He also handles most of the rental properties.’

‘So he’s the one I should talk to about Howard Stokes?’

‘I honestly don’t think he would be able to tell you anything more than I can. As I said, we don’t keep tabs on our tenants. They’ve got the houses rent-free until they find alternative accommodation. I can’t say fairer than that.’

‘When do they have to be out?’

‘We don’t actually have a fixed starting date yet. Just waiting for the final details to fall into place. The sooner the better, though.’

‘About that video arcade — we’ve had one or two tips that some of the kids from Eastvale Comprehensive are buying drugs there.’

‘If that’s the case,’ said Kerrigan, ‘it’s being done behind my back. I’ll certainly have a word with my staff about the issue, though.’

‘Good. Appreciate it. How’s business?’

‘What business? Where?’

Banks looked around. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The arcade. The properties. You know, in general.’

‘It’s difficult times we live in, Mr Banks. So much uncertainty. And uncertainty’s bad for stability, which is what we’d prefer in our markets. But you go with the flow, swings and roundabouts, slings and arrows. It all works out in the wash. We can ride out the storm. I’m optimistic.’

Banks tried to think when he had last heard a metaphor as mixed as that last speech, but he couldn’t. ‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘Just a couple more questions, then I’ll leave you to your evening. I understand Mr Blaydon received a phone call on his mobile in the restaurant at about ten o’clock last Sunday evening. Am I right?’

‘I believe so. Yes. Though I can’t say I made a note of the time.’

‘Can you tell me who it was from?’

Kerrigan made a steeple of his chubby fingers. ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea. He simply answered the phone, listened for a moment and then excused himself.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘Not long. Five minutes, perhaps.’

‘How did he seem? Did the phone call upset him, make him happy, unhappy, what?’

‘Neutral, really. He just said he had a small business matter to take care of, and he’d be back in a few minutes. We were finishing our sweets at the time.’

‘I understand Chef McGuigan does an excellent job there.’

‘We’re lucky to have such an establishment in town, Mr Banks. You really should try it.’

‘Not on a poor policeman’s salary.’

Kerrigan paused and licked his lips. ‘I’m sure something can be arranged.’

‘Are you offering me a bribe, Timmy?’

‘Heaven forbid! Nothing of the sort. Merely a favour for a friend. I’m afraid that when it comes to the good things in life, I’m a champagne socialist. I think we should all be able to enjoy them, not just an elite few. Don’t you agree?’

‘Would that I could indulge myself,’ said Banks. He put his empty glass down on the desk and stood. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’

‘All mine, Mr Banks. All mine.’

Kerrigan stood up and they shook hands. His was pudgy and clammy. The dance floor on the way out was a lot noisier and more crowded than it had been when Banks first came in, and he had to thread his way through the bobbing, gesticulating crowd of dancers. The DJ was hopping about playing with two turntables against the electrobeat, speeding them up, rotating them backwards, slowing them down. Banks was relieved when he got outside into the relative quiet of the market square. It was after dark, and a few couples and groups of young people were drifting over from the pubs towards The Vaults. Banks eyed the Queen’s Arms, still lit up and relatively busy, but he had already had one drink that evening, and he decided he would be better off heading home and enjoying a drop of Macallan in his conservatory, perhaps with some Marianne Faithful to go with it.

If Zelda had really wanted to date a racing car driver who talked about nothing but himself and his cars, she soon found that it would be very easy to do so. The hard part was getting away from him. He was handsome enough, and he knew it. He also thought he was macho and exciting, and perhaps he was, but that didn’t interest Zelda. All she really wanted to know now was that she still had her appeal, and so she was making a trial run in her hotel’s rooftop bar after dinner that night. It had taken the man less time than it took the barman to pour her a glass of white wine to settle next to her and start a conversation. It had taken her slightly longer to get rid of him, but he got the message eventually and wandered off to survey the other pickings.

For some reason, the whole set-up reminded her of her time in Paris. In luxury, many might say. She had a spacious apartment not too far from the Champs-Élysées, where she did her ‘entertaining’. She didn’t even have to seek men; they were sent to her. Many were considerate and tender, even cultivated and interesting, unlike those she had known in the cheap brothels and sex clubs of Eastern Europe.

But she was still a whore. And she was still a prisoner.

She had no family, so they couldn’t force her into working for them with threats to hurt loved ones. Nor did she owe them money. But Darius made it perfectly clear that if she cheated him or ran out on him, he would find her — he had the means to do so — and would personally supervise her dismemberment. While she was still alive. She was also accompanied by two ‘bodyguards’ when she went shopping, or whenever she took a meal break in the local brasserie. Whatever money she made — and she had no idea how much it was — went to the organisation. Darius had bought her at a ‘sale’ in Sarajevo: an auction, where she and the other ‘lots’ had been forced to parade in a kind of sick catwalk, first scantily clad, then naked, while prospective buyers lined up to feel the firmness of their breasts and the tightness of their vaginas. In certain cases, a free trial might be approved, though she was fortunate in avoiding that. She soon discovered that Darius was repelled by women and would no sooner touch one of the girls than he would a rabid dog. Though she was never sure, she was fairly certain that he preferred men.

She was lucky, people told her. Darius was no backstreet brothel-keeper. He had a stable of high-class call girls in Paris, and they got the crème de la crème of clientele. Government ministers. Visiting Hollywood celebrities. Leaders of industry. It was there that Zelda had learned to use her natural charms rather than simply lie back and open her legs. Some of the men were quite sophisticated and appreciated conversation and little sensual touches, like a massage. Not all wanted sex. Sometimes she felt like a geisha.

But she was still a whore. And she was still a prisoner.

Darius wore bespoke suits, drank the best champagne and had the best drugs — that was where Zelda picked up her coke habit. It helped get her through the day, and the downers at night helped her forget where and what she was.

Then came Emile, a very important client, she was told. A government minister tipped for even higher office. After two visits, during which he never laid a finger on her, Emile told her he was in love with her. She didn’t know what love was outside of the books she had read, so she didn’t really know if she felt the same way. But she said she did. It made him happy. And if he was happy, Darius was happy. And if Darius was happy, he wouldn’t beat her so often. For despite his fancy suits, champagne, drugs and cologne, he was a brute underneath, just like those brutes that had abducted her.

Emile started plotting her escape. He would leave his wife and they would live together in Paris, he said, and when he had time off, he had a beautiful villa in Provence where they could stay. It would be idyllic, a wonderful life. He couldn’t bear it that she had to see other men; he wanted her all to himself. She couldn’t imagine what that might be like, but he was kind and she enjoyed his company. As time went on, she began to trust him and love him in her way. So together, they formed a plan. Emile was an important figure in a department of the French government, and he said he could help her get a passport if she helped him bring down Darius. She said she would. What were a few months more if they meant freedom? But she remembered Darius’s threat, and she knew that he meant it. The only way she could ever be entirely free of him was to kill him.

‘Is this seat taken?’

Zelda snapped back out of her memories. ‘Sorry?’

‘This seat — is it taken?’

Zelda waved her hand. ‘Oh. No. Not at all.’

‘I’m surprised to hear that.’

Zelda turned to face the stranger, an American by the sound of him. ‘Why would that be?’ she asked.

‘A beautiful woman like you.’

Oh, Christ, thought Zelda, here we go again. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ she said.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Every little bit helps. I just got some bad news from my doctor, and I could do with a pick-me-up, as well as someone to talk to. You can commiserate with me.’

‘White wine?’ He edged closer. ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ A note of caution crept into his voice.

Zelda spoke between sniffles. ‘He says the penicillin should get rid of it, but in the meantime it hurts like hell every time I have to take a piss.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, got up and hurried off.

When he was far enough away, Zelda knocked back the remainder of her drink, smiled to herself, then stood up, straightened her shoulders and headed back to her room. Trial run successful, she decided. Tomorrow, she hoped, it would be time for the real thing.