Not Dark Yet

18

Two days passed uneventfully, and Banks whiled away his time reading, gardening, and listening to music — from Mahler’s symphonies to Jon Savage’s sixties compilation CDs. There were moments when he thought that if this was what not having to work was all about, then it wasn’t such a bad thing at all. Other times he felt edgy and restless, longing for some obscure mystery he could sink his teeth into.

The missing persons search for Zelda was effectively over, and now the police wanted to talk to her in connection with the fire at the water treatment plant in which two people had died. Banks trusted that she was far enough away and well enough hidden that they wouldn’t find her. Newry believed that she had killed both men, or that Banks had, but Newry wasn’t on the investigating team. He was IOPC, and his job was over. The Homicide and Major Crimes team from Durham was tackling the case now. Banks had talked to them and told them what he knew, or as much as he wanted them to know, and it was out of his hands now. He was exonerated. Newry could gripe to his heart’s content about the presence of a knife at the scene, a nick on a bone that might possibly indicate a stab wound and the matter of who struck the lighter that started the fire, but it no longer mattered what Newry thought, as what forensic evidence they had supported Banks’s story and none of it implicated him. In addition, Banks’s injuries, including the memory loss, were verified by Dr. Chowdhury and proven to be commensurate with the physical circumstances of his abduction and incarceration.

From the bits and pieces Banks had heard, he got the impression that Zelda wasn’t too high on their list of priorities; they seemed to be concentrating more on the Tadić gang’s criminal concerns and on Keane’s part in them. Gashi, too, was on their radar, his whereabouts unknown, and the disappearance of Goran Tadić was still an issue, albeit a minor one, as he wasn’t regarded as much of a loss.

One interesting piece of information, supplied by Jazz Singh at Banks’s request, was that a comparison between the DNA from the human arm found at the landfill site near Croydon and that from the body found on the upper floor of the burned-out water treatment plant gave a high indication that the two were siblings. Goran and Petar Tadić, Banks guessed, though there was no absolute proof, as neither was in any DNA database. The corpse’s DNA also matched that of the cigarette ends found near Windlee Farm. As they presumably belonged to the man Mick Slater described and Ray Cabbot sketched, the corpse was identified by Superintendent Burgess as Petar Tadić.

But a man can only do so much reading and gardening, and on the second day of his sick leave, Banks made a few phone calls, and on the third, he took an early train from York.

‘This is the second time you’ve had me brought up here,’ Charlotte Westlake complained as Gerry tended to the recording equipment in the interview room and Annie settled down in her chair late that afternoon. ‘I hope you’ve got a damn good reason.’

‘Be careful, or you might get what you hope for,’ said Annie.

‘Wait,’ said Charlotte. ‘As the officer who arrested me and brought me here suggested, I requested my solicitor to meet me, so I would be grateful if you would please wait until she arrives. She won’t be long.’

Annie and Gerry exchanged glances, then they left a young constable on guard and went down to the canteen for a cup of tea while they waited. Coffee at Costa would have been preferable to weak canteen tea, but they didn’t want to leave the station. They had already planned the strategy of the interview, such as it was, the previous evening in the Queen’s Arms. Gerry had uncovered more than enough information from her talk with Charlotte’s mother and the box of letters and postcards Lynne Pollard had been only too happy to share. The rest had come from the General Register and the various databases available to her online. If she was right about some of the conclusions she had reached, based on scraps of information picked up here and there, Gerry was sure that Charlotte would paint herself into a corner from which the only way out was the truth.

As yet, Annie and Gerry didn’t know what that truth was, and the possibilities kept shifting with the information coming in. When all they had was a number of inspired guesses, planning a strategy became that much more difficult. They would have to improvise from time to time. The basis for Charlotte Westlake’s arrest — suspicion of murder — was probably a bit far-fetched, Gerry would be the first to admit, but it was a means of bringing her in and throwing her off guard. It would also allow them to keep her in custody for twenty-four hours if necessary.

Charlotte’s solicitor, Jessica Bowen, turned up twenty minutes later and after a ten-minute huddle with her client, they all settled down in the airless room. Gerry got the recording equipment working and made the introductions.

‘Are we all sitting comfortably?’ asked Annie. When the reply was silence, she said, ‘Then I’ll begin.’

Jessica Bowen gave her a stern glance for the frivolous Children’s Hour opening.

‘Mrs. Westlake,’ said Annie, ‘was Marnie Sedgwick your daughter?’

Clearly, whatever Charlotte Westlake had been expecting, it wasn’t this. She seemed like an animal desperate to escape its cage, squirming in her chair, turning pale, looking towards her solicitor one moment then back to her questioner the next. ‘Wha...? How do...?’ Gerry wondered how on earth she thought that they wouldn’t discover this information. More burying her head in the sand? Naive or stupid?

‘Simple enough question,’ said Annie, ignoring the reaction. ‘Can you please give me an answer?’

Charlotte took a deep breath and struggled to regain her equilibrium. Her lawyer gave her the nod to continue. ‘Technically, I suppose, yes, she is,’ she said.

‘Technically?’

‘I’m her birth mother, but as you clearly know already, I gave her up for adoption. Her true parents are the ones who brought her up.’

‘The Sedgwicks?’

‘I wasn’t aware of who adopted her. It’s not standard practice to give the birth mother such information.’

‘Did you have any hand whatsoever in her upbringing?’

‘None.’

‘How old was she when she was adopted?’

‘A baby. I never... I mean, straight away. As soon as possible. I never even held her.’

‘Who was the father?’

‘That’s irrelevant.’

‘Not to us it isn’t,’ said Annie. Then she turned over a page. ‘Very well, we’ll leave that for the moment.’ She paused and went on in a weary tone. ‘Why didn’t you save us a lot of trouble and tell us this information right from the start?’

‘I don’t know. It didn’t seem relevant somehow. It was a long time ago. Nineteen years.’

‘Didn’t seem relevant?’ Annie repeated. ‘That’s one of the lamest excuses for lying to us that I’ve ever come across. Don’t you agree, DC Masterson?’

‘It’s pretty lame,’ said Gerry.

‘She came back into your life,’ Annie said, ‘and not long afterwards, she was raped. And you didn’t think any of this was relevant?’

‘But there’s no connection. It’s just coincidence. I still don’t think any of this is relevant.’

‘Try again,’ Annie said. ‘Irrelevant, coincidence — these aren’t excuses we recognise. And this time, give us the real reason why you didn’t tell us.’

‘I’ve already told you. Besides, I didn’t want to get involved. I knew you’d make too much of it.’

‘Better. A little bit,’ said Annie. ‘But you are involved, like it or not. And this lie, or omission, makes you even more so. See, when people lie to us about one thing, we assume they might be lying about other things, too.’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ said Charlotte, clasping her hands on the table. ‘You’re just being nasty. You must know that I couldn’t have raped poor Marnie.’

‘Nobody’s suggesting you did.’

‘Then why persecute me? Why don’t you leave me alone? Any mistakes I’ve made I’ve had to live with. You’ve no right to sit in judgement on me.’

‘There’s no easy way of putting this,’ said Annie, ‘but things have taken another turn. I assume you know about Marnie’s death?’

‘Her... what?’

‘Her death,’ Annie repeated. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you might have known.’

‘How could I have known? Who was there to tell me?’

This had been a difficult part of their approach to plan. Either Charlotte knew what had happened to Marnie, or she didn’t, and there was no easy way of finding out. In the end, they decided it was best to confront her with the truth. Gerry watched closely and believed that Charlotte’s reaction was genuine, that she hadn’t known.

‘It’s very important you tell us the truth about this,’ Annie said. ‘Did you know that Marnie was dead?’

‘No.’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I’m not even sure I believe you. You’re trying to trick me. Tell me that’s what you’re doing.’

Gerry saw the misery etched in her features and knew she was telling the truth.

‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,’ Annie said.

‘What happened? How... I mean...?’

Annie went on. ‘She took her own life just under a month ago, on 17 May. A few days before Connor Clive Blaydon was murdered.’

‘A month,’ Charlotte repeated. ‘All that time. And I never knew. Where? Why? How?’

‘Near home. In Dorset. As for why, who knows? I assume it was because she couldn’t come to terms with what happened to her and she felt shamed, damaged, broken. Or that she found out she was pregnant.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Charlotte. ‘Things come full circle.’

‘What does that mean?’

Charlotte started to cry and reached for a tissue from the box on the table and wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t believe she’s dead.’

‘Take a minute,’ Annie said. ‘Can I get you anything?’

Charlotte held her hand up and gulped down some water. ‘I’ll be all right in a minute. Let’s just get this over with.’

‘It might take a while,’ said Annie. ‘We can take a short break if you need to. But if you’re OK to carry on, we will.’ She glanced at Jessica Bowen, who nodded.

‘I’m OK,’ said Charlotte. ‘I want this all over with and I never want to see you again.’

‘That all depends very much on your telling us the truth. You lied to us about your connection with Marnie Sedgwick, and that’s why you’re here. How did she find you in the first place?’

‘The usual way. She applied for her birth certificate when she turned eighteen then tracked me down through one of those online hereditary sites.’

‘When was this?’

‘January. Just after Christmas.’

‘Why did she wait so long?’

‘She told me later that she wasn’t sure she could go through with it. She’d been very happy with the Sedgwicks, and she didn’t want them to feel they’d been inadequate or somehow let her down. It’s not unusual for children seeking their birth parents to feel apprehensive, to hesitate.’

‘And she came to see you this January?’

‘Yes.’

‘At the office?’

‘No. She got my home address first.’

‘How did the meeting go?’

Charlotte shifted in her chair. ‘Awkward, as I’m sure you can imagine. But I think she understood finally, how the adoption was best for her, not only me. How I couldn’t possibly have been a fit mother. I think she understood.’

‘Was she angry?’

‘No. She said she had been, at first, but it passed. She was just curious. She didn’t want me to take her in or even develop any kind of maternal relationship. As far as Marnie was concerned, the Sedgwicks were her parents. She just wanted to see me in the flesh, so to speak, and for me to know that she existed.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Later, she came to me at the office. She wanted work. There was no special pleading or anything, she wasn’t after any favours. She wasn’t even asking for special treatment. She knew what I did and thought she could fit in somewhere. Simple as that. She already had a waitressing job at Pizza Express in York, but she wasn’t getting paid very much, and she said she wanted to save to go back to university.’

‘But she’d already dropped out of Nottingham.’

‘Because she didn’t have enough money, and she thought she was wasting her time studying History. She wanted to take on a practical subject like Management Studies or Hospitality.’

‘And you encouraged her?’

‘I told her I’d done fairly practical subjects at uni, that it was a good idea if she hoped to get a good job. That you can always read history and literature in your spare time, but it’s not going to earn you a living unless you teach. I gave her work. It wasn’t much, but she was well enough paid for what she did.’

‘What about your relationship? Did it thrive?’

‘I wouldn’t say it thrived, no. There was always a distance. You’d expect that after so many years. As I told you, the Sedgwicks were her parents, no doubt about that. She made it clear and I accepted it. But it didn’t degenerate, either. We got on well enough.’

‘Why did you give her up for adoption in the first place?’

‘The usual reasons. I was too young, too selfish, too irresponsible.’

‘What about abortion?’

‘I’m from a Catholic family. All right, so my parents were lapsed Catholics, and I’ve never been religious, but I just felt that abortion wasn’t an option at the time.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Annie.

‘I was living a pretty wild life. Free and easy. All the travel, sun and sand and everything. I didn’t want to be lumbered with a child to bring up.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘When I found out I was pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘I went to stay with a friend in Herefordshire, near Hay, where they have the book festival. That was for my... what did they used to call it... lying in? That’s what I did. I lay in and waited. The baby was born at the nearest hospital, a small one, and I gave her up for adoption. End of story.’

Annie consulted the notes Gerry had made. ‘And after that you put your life back together, got on track, started a career in events planning? Met your husband?’

‘Having a child shook me up. I grew up pretty quickly, I’d say, even though I didn’t have the responsibility of child-rearing. So, yes, I threw myself into a new career. I happen to be a quick learner. The degree helped, too. Or at least, Oxford did. Connections. I also have some facility with languages. French, Spanish, a little Greek.’

‘So what was your reaction when Marnie came to you and told you she’d been raped?’

‘She never... I mean, I...’

‘Come on, Charlotte. Don’t start lying again. We were doing so well. Who else could she go to? Not her own parents. She wanted to protect them. You were probably more like a big sister to her than anyone else.’

Charlotte turned to Jessica Bowen, who leaned forward and whispered in her ear. Charlotte nodded a couple of times and turned back to Annie. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Marnie did come to my house when I got back from Costa Rica, and she told me what had happened. She was in a terrible state, emotionally. I... I did my best to comfort her. She wouldn’t go to the police. I tried to persuade her, honestly, but she didn’t want to go through the humiliation, the victim-blaming. She said she thought she could put it behind her. I wasn’t too sure about that, but I realised my job, my only job, was to give her comfort and support right there and then. Which I did.’

‘And now we come to the big question, Charlotte,’ said Annie. ‘Who did it? Who raped Marnie Sedgwick?’

By five o’clock that afternoon, Banks was sitting in the shade outside La Porte Montmartre, on the corner of the Boulevard Poissonnière and the Boulevard Montmartre, in Paris, with a large glass of excellent red Bordeaux in front of him, watching the world go by. It wouldn’t have been true to say that he hadn’t a care in the world — he had many — but at moments such as these, the cares receded, and it felt good to be alive.

His last-minute hotel, which went under the uninspiring name of Hôtel 34B, turned out to be a gem. For less than one hundred euros he got a comfortable room, decorated all in white, clean and spacious enough. It didn’t have a balcony, but the windows overlooked the street below. The buildings on both sides of Rue Bergère were five storeys high, so it was like looking into a narrow canyon. Cars and motor scooters were parked by the pavements and even though it was only a little side street there was a constant flow of people. He could see three restaurants from his fourth-floor window: Les Diables au Thym, Dr. Auguste, and Bio c’Bon, an ‘organic’ salad bar, on the corner with Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, where there were many more restaurants and cafes, along with a hypermarché. The hotel was no frills and had no restaurant or bar, but Banks didn’t need such luxuries when there were so many places to eat and drink in the neighbourhood. Like the cafe he was in now.

He was waiting for Jean-Claude Meursault, an old friend from the police judiciaire. They had first met at an Interpol conference in Lyon fifteen years previously and had stayed in touch ever since. Jean-Claude had retired the previous year, and Banks had attended his farewell party. If anyone knew anything about Zelda’s time in Paris, and whether she was there at the moment, it was Jean-Claude.

A commissaire at 36 Quai des Orfèvres for many years, Jean-Claude reminded Banks of his hero Maigret, physically as well as in mind and attitude. The Rupert Davies Maigret, of course. As far as Banks was concerned, Gambon was good, Atkinson was execrable, Bruno Cremer was the French choice, but Rupert Davies was Maigret. He was large and burly, and though he didn’t smoke a pipe, one would not have seemed out of place in his hand or mouth. He also had that calm, slow manner of the deep thinker about him, though as Banks had once seen when they encountered some trouble in a bar, he could be remarkably quick on his feet.

Banks glanced around at his fellow drinkers: a group of tourists, a couple of old men sitting in silence together, a businessman trying to impress his secretary, an elegant woman sipping white wine and glancing nervously at her watch, perhaps waiting for her lover, two garrulous young Frenchmen sharing jokes. Gauloises smoke drifted over from the next table, reminding Banks of his school exchange with a boy from Lille when he was about fourteen. It was quite a discovery at that age to find out you could order a beer in a bar, then sit and drink it while enjoying a Disque Bleu and no one would think twice about it.

He watched the people passing by. Nobody seemed in much of a hurry. Suddenly, he saw the young Francoise Hardy, tall, willowy, with shiny long chestnut hair, stylishly dressed, carrying four long-stemmed red roses. She noticed him looking at her and flashed him a quizzical smile that for some reason made him feel like a dirty old man. But he wasn’t dirty and he didn’t feel old. He knew quite well that she wasn’t really Francoise Hardy, but Francoise Hardy as she would have been over fifty years ago, when he was an awestruck schoolboy on his first trip abroad in the heady days of Salut les copains, Sylvie Vartan, Johnny Hallyday, France Gall, and Richard Anthony. And he didn’t feel any different now from that young man who had listened to her sing ‘Tous les garçons et les filles’ as he gazed at her photo on the album cover all those years ago.

He remembered a field outside Lille, surrounded by trees, a stolen kiss with Brigitte while the others immersed themselves in a game of boules. The scent of warm grass, the tang of wine, the softness of her lips yielding shyly. That was it. That was all. That was enough.

‘Alain.’ The familiar voice brought him back from the past in a rush. It was Jean-Claude. He had always used the French for his name, called him ‘Alain.’

Banks stood up and they embraced warmly then sat down. The waiter drifted by and Banks ordered another Bordeaux for himself and whatever Jean-Claude wanted, which was a glass of Chablis.

‘I was miles away,’ Banks said. ‘You know, I just saw a girl who was the spitting image of the young Francoise Hardy.’

Jean-Claude smiled indulgently. ‘Always the romantic.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘For a policeman, I think it is.’

The drinks arrived and Jean-Claude took a sip. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You know, she was born not far from here. In the ninth, at any rate.’

‘Francoise Hardy?’

‘Oui.’

Banks’s perspective shifted slightly, as if he were viewing the place from a different angle. ‘How’s retirement?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure I know yet. It hasn’t been that long, and I’ve been consulting with my squad on high-profile cases ever since.’

‘So you’re still working?’

‘Basically, yes. But part-time. Less stress.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Let the young men do all the running round and my little grey cells do all my work.’

The shadows were creeping across the pavement in front of the Grand Comptoir restaurant over the street, almost reaching the outside tables. Its pale cream facade was still lit in the late afternoon glow. The number of pedestrians passing by started to increase as the Metro disgorged more and more people on their way home from work.

The empty tables soon filled, and the buzz of conversation got louder. Banks and Jean-Claude chatted about old times, opera, football, books, Brexit, and the future. Eventually, after the second glass of Chablis, Jean-Claude asked Banks, ‘You wanted to talk about something? You were very cryptic on the telephone. Is it something I can help with?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Banks.

‘Then I suggest we finish our drinks and discuss it over dinner. I know just the place.’

Charlotte paused so long that Annie thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally, she cast her eyes down and muttered so softly that Annie had to lean forward to hear her. ‘Connor,’ she said. ‘Connor raped her.’

Annie slapped the table. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you tell us that from the start? Do you realise how much trouble you’ve caused; the resources you’ve wasted?’

‘That’s not my fault,’ Charlotte argued back, her eyes brimming with tears again. ‘I didn’t tell you because Marnie didn’t want anyone to know and Connor’s dead, so what the hell does it matter? You couldn’t put him in jail. How the hell was I to know there was a video and that you’d end up investigating the rape? I knew it would end like this, with you lot trying to find something to charge me with, lock me up, and throw away the key. That you’d ruin the life I’ve worked so hard to build. That’s why I didn’t tell you the truth to begin with.’

‘Oh, spare me,’ said Annie. ‘You’re telling us you lied because you were surprised by the video? That you didn’t expect to have to answer any questions? Is that why you also lied about not recognising Marnie from the first picture we showed you, leading us to waste hours of valuable time finding out who she was?’

‘Yes.’ Charlotte sniffed. ‘And now Marnie’s dead, too. They’re both dead. It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? None of it matters any more.’

‘Perhaps if you had insisted that Marnie get the kind of help she needed, she would still be alive.’

Charlotte gave her a look of pure hatred. ‘How can you?’ she said. ‘How dare you say that to me? You’re a terrible person, a cruel person.’ She started to cry again, and the lawyer passed her a tissue.

‘Ease up a little, DI Cabbot,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘You’ve just informed Mrs. Westlake about the death of her biological daughter. She has reason to be upset.’

‘You think I’m being too hard?’ Annie said. ‘Sorry. It’s a sign of the extreme frustration this case has caused me.’

‘We’re all frustrated,’ said Jessica Bowen, ‘but let us please try to remain civilised.’

Annie glanced at Gerry, who also seemed dumbstruck by her last comment. Had she really overstepped the mark? Was she cruel? The only thing to do now was to press on to the logical conclusion.

‘What was your relationship with Connor Blaydon?’ she asked.

Charlotte blew her nose and looked up with reddened eyes. ‘What do you mean, relationship? He was my boss.’

‘Other than that?’

‘Are you suggesting there was more to it than that?’

Annie turned over a sheet of paper. ‘When Marnie’s best friend, Mitsuko Ogawa, told us about her job, she said that you were working for an old friend. We thought it seemed like an odd thing to say at the time, as you’d told us you met Blaydon at a gala event a few years before. You never mentioned a friendship. But you also indicated that you had known one another on and off for some time. Only you were very vague about it.’

‘Why should I mention a friendship? There wasn’t one. We had a working relationship. I don’t know what this Ogawa woman was talking about, but it was likely just a figure of speech.’

‘How long had you known Blaydon, then?’ Annie asked. ‘Whether you were friends or not.’

‘Like I said, a few years, on and off.’

‘How many? Twenty?’

Charlotte turned away. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

Annie referred to the notes Gerry had made again. ‘Isn’t it true that you had known Connor Clive Blaydon since you were twenty-one, in 1999? You were a rebellious young tearaway gadding around the Greek islands with some wealthy friends you’d met at St. Hilda’s, cadging lifts and sleeping berths on yachts. Didn’t you once cadge a lift on a luxury yacht called the Nerea, out of Corfu? And wasn’t this owned by one Connor Clive Blaydon?’

Charlotte seemed to freeze. Jessica Bowen glanced from her client to Annie and back. ‘DI Cabbot,’ she said. ‘Exactly where are you going with this?’

‘Patience,’ said Annie. ‘Have patience, and all will be revealed.’

‘I’m tired,’ said Charlotte. ‘And you’ve upset me.’ She implored Jessica Bowen. ‘Please, make them stop. It’s my right. I’m entitled to a break. I want to go home.’

‘Legally, we are entitled to detain you for twenty-four hours without charge,’ said Annie. ‘But you’re right. You do have a right to breaks, meals, and so on. Now, we have a destination in mind, and one way or another we’re going to get there. If you’re tired and need a break, we have a very comfortable cell in the basement. You’ll be fed, made comfortable, and we can start again bright and early tomorrow morning.’

‘This is a nightmare. I want to go home.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you have to stay in custody until we’re satisfied with your answers to our questions,’ she said. ‘It’s the law.’

Charlotte glanced at Jessica Bowen again.

‘You’ll be all right,’ the solicitor said. ‘I’ll be nearby. You’ll be well treated. I promise you.’

But Charlotte didn’t look happy in the slightest, least of all when two female officers marched her out of the interview room and down to the custody suite.

‘You know Nelia Melnic?’ Jean-Claude asked, clearly stunned by Banks’s revelation of what he wanted to talk about.

‘Yes. She goes by the name of Zelda now. She’s a friend. Why, do you?’

‘No. No. I’ve never met her. I just know the name. I’m surprised, that’s all. I hear she’s very beautiful.’

‘Yes.’ They were having dinner at a restaurant Jean-Claude knew, lost in the maze of backstreets of the 9th Arrondissement. The specialty was seafood, and both were enjoying the house platter along with a bottle of fine white Burgundy, chosen by Jean-Claude. They had been fortunate to get there early enough for a table out front.

‘Why are you so surprised?’ Banks asked.

Jean-Claude paused, a shrimp midway between his plate and his mouth. ‘Because she is famous here, Alain. Perhaps not with the general population, though many will certainly have heard of her, but with the police for certain. She was a legend in the squad room. Did she not tell you?’

‘I know something happened here,’ Banks said. ‘Something serious involving a pimp called Darius. But that’s about all I do know.’

Jean-Claude gave him a serious look. ‘Most of the story is classified, you understand. I could not possibly tell you all the names and positions of those involved. There was a scandal. Well, a narrowly averted scandal. Very few people know the details.’

‘But you’re one of them?’

Jean-Claude inclined his head slightly. ‘I had some small involvement. To be perfectly honest, though, even I don’t know the names of the major players. They were important people, that is all I know. Government people.’

Banks tussled with an extremely recalcitrant langoustine. ‘She has a French passport.’

‘Mm. You see, I didn’t know that. Why are you interested?’

Banks told him about Zelda and Ray and the trouble with the Tadićs, Keane, and Hawkins, leaving out the murders and abductions.

Jean-Claude swallowed a mouthful of wine and said, ‘So that’s what became of her. Perhaps she is the sort of woman trouble follows around?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Banks. ‘The Tadićs are from way back in her past. They abducted her outside her orphanage as she was leaving. But this Darius business is more recent.’

‘It was just over three years ago,’ said Jean-Claude. ‘The month of March. I remember it well.’

‘Did you work the case?’

‘There was no case. And I told you, even I don’t know the full details.’

‘But you said you had some involvement. What happened?’

‘Darius was a pimp. Or perhaps that does him an injustice. His girls were all beautiful, high-class, très chic, and très expensive. With a Darius girl, it was strictly dinner at Maxim’s, then back to a suite at the George V, if you know what I mean.’

‘No matter what the price,’ said Banks, ‘the business is the same. I’d say he was a pimp.’

‘You would get no real argument from me. We knew of him, of course. He was born in Algeria and came to Paris in his late twenties. A crook from the start. He very quickly made his way up the ladder through a mixture of brutality and business acumen. His rivals seemed to have a habit of disappearing, and he was not averse to hurting the girls when he thought it necessary to keep them in line.’

‘A nasty piece of work then?’

‘Very nasty.’ Jean-Claude paused to finish the remains of his meal, ending with the last oyster, which he washed down with the Burgundy, then went on. ‘What nobody knew for quite some time was that he had a little blackmail business on the side. You know, the usual: photos, sometimes film, famous or highly placed victims.’

It sounded very much like what Neville Roberts had been doing back on Banks’s home patch. ‘But I thought you French were more permissive than us lot about that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Don’t most Frenchmen have a mistress? Visit prostitutes? I seem to have read only recently about a Frenchman who died while having adulterous sex on a job-related trip, and it was classified as a “workplace accident.” ’

Jean-Claude laughed. ‘So the Frenchman’s workplace is his mistress’s boudoir? Oh, Alain. What have you been reading? Or perhaps it is the films of Vadim, Rohmer, or Truffaut that influence you? Yes, we are to a certain extent more liberal than you English as regards domestic arrangements and matters of the boudoir, but remember this was quite recent, and believe it or not, even France has been stricken by a plague of uber-morality in public life since the old days. #BalanceTonPorc — what you call #MeToo — has made its presence known here. Just look at the trouble with Roman Polanski, for example. That would never have happened a few years ago. The tide is turning. But if only that were all.’

‘There’s more?’

‘Isn’t there always? Dessert?’

Banks patted his stomach. ‘I think I’ve just about got room.’

Jean-Claude caught the waiter’s attention and ordered apple tarte tatins and Calvados for both of them. A couple of elegantly dressed French women took the next table. One of them, mid-forties, perhaps, with short, tousled brown hair, a pale oval face and full lips, wearing a cream blazer over a pale blue blouse, was particularly attractive. After they had adjusted their chairs and disposed of their handbags, she turned slightly and gave Banks a quick smile. Then they began speaking in French so fast that Banks couldn’t follow at all.

‘You were saying there’s more?’ he prompted Jean-Claude.

‘Yes. Darius’s clientele, customers, whatever you called them, were very mixed. They included men highly placed in government, ministers, prominent businessmen, even gangsters, Russian oligarchs... People in possession of closely guarded secrets. Men who, under the right circumstances, might find themselves talking out of turn.’

‘I think I know where you’re going,’ said Banks.

‘You are thinking of your Profumo affair, no doubt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you remember what President de Gaulle said about that?’

‘No.’

‘He said that’s what happens when the English try to behave like the French.’

Banks laughed. ‘But that was back in the Cold War,’ he said. ‘Russian spies and all that.’

‘Well, it is true that the objectives have changed now that the Cold War is over, but the game remains the same. Darius had some highly placed customers, and some of his most beautiful girls were Russian. Trafficked girls, we suspect. Pillow talk is what it is, and money is always a good incentive for loose tongues. Only this time the matter exchanged involved business dealings, stocks and shares and takeovers, rather than weapons and military or political strategy.’

‘And Zelda’s part?’

‘Your Zelda was one of Darius’s favourites. Apparently, she was also very smart and she knew what was going on. And she spoke fluent Russian. Like your Pretty Woman film, one client came into her life and fell in love with her, what you would call a cabinet minister, with special responsibilities involving criminal intelligence and the police in general. My boss. Like your Home Secretary. He wanted her to change, wanted them to go away together. He was going to leave his wife and children for her.’

‘Emile?’ said Banks, remembering Zelda’s journal.

‘Yes. You know this? You know the full story?’

Banks glanced at the woman at the next table. She was in animated conversation with her friend and was paying not the slightest attention to him and Jean-Claude. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just a few fragments. Please go on. I promise not to interrupt again.’

‘When this... Emile... had an idea of what was going on, he devised a scheme. If Nelia could somehow get to Darius’s cache of blackmail material — especially the audio tapes — and either destroy it or hand it over to him, she would become a heroine of the French people. In secret, of course, as all the best heroes and heroines are.’

‘And here’s me thinking they were posthumous.’

‘Cynic. Well, not in this case.’

‘So how did it go wrong?’

‘It didn’t. Not until the end.’ He glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention. They weren’t. ‘None of this was for public consumption, but according to Nelia’s statement in camera, Darius came in while she was removing the documents from his safe. He saw what she was doing and attacked her, tried to kill her. In the struggle, she managed to grab a knife from the table and stabbed him several times. Then, when he was weakened and incapacitated, she slit his throat, just to make sure he was dead.’

‘And was he?’

‘Oh, yes. According to someone I know who was at the scene shortly after it happened, there was blood all over the place. The girl was calm as anything, like a zombie. In shock, no doubt.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She disappeared. The rumour was that she had, of course, been pardoned for what happened to Darius and spirited away. Many, many people who would never admit it publicly were secretly more than glad that he was dead and his cache of blackmail material destroyed. Beyond, that, I don’t know, except she was never mentioned again. You know more than I do about the aftermath and her later adventures. Emile must have got the French passport for her — he was certainly highly placed enough to do her that favour — and she cleared off, never to darken our shores again. It was to everyone’s advantage that the whole affair was hushed up and forgotten. Much went on behind closed doors, you understand. A scandal was narrowly avoided. The documents and tapes were destroyed, of course, a few low-profile arrests were made, and the girl had her freedom... There was only one extremely tragic consequence.’

‘Emile?’

‘Yes. Three months later he was killed in a road accident on his way back from a meeting in Strasbourg.’

‘Accident?’

Jean-Claude gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘So they said. And there was no evidence to the contrary. No witnesses, no forensic indications that he had done anything except fall asleep at the wheel and veer off the road into a convenient tree.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Toxicology showed nothing in his system except a small amount of alcohol. Not even enough to get him charged with driving under the influence.’

‘Darius’s partners, no doubt?’

‘Yes. Enforcers. But as far as we know they are all working for someone else now, peddling drugs in Marseilles. We keep an eye on them, of course, make sure they don’t end up back here, but without their leader, there’s not a lot of enthusiasm left in them for Paris.’

‘They’re not after Zelda?’

‘Darius’s women all drifted away after his death, some to other pimps, no doubt, and others to an escape from the life, and this Nelia was just one of them. It’s unlikely they would still be chasing her after all this time. Loyalty among crooks only goes so far and lasts so long.’

‘And Zelda hasn’t been seen or heard of here since?’

‘No,’ said Jean-Claude. ‘I will ask around, if you like. Get back to you tomorrow. But I still think the answer will be no.’

‘You would know if she had been seen over the past few days?’

‘Believe me, if she was here, I will know by tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Jean-Claude.’ That didn’t mean she hadn’t been back in secret, but from what he had heard, Banks now doubted that she would have chosen Paris as the first stop on her escape route. He would have to search further afield, if he was to search at all. He had hoped he might see her here, get a chance to talk and clear some things up, but perhaps it was best to simply let her be, let her live the rest of her life the way she wanted. God knows, she deserved it.

‘Tell me, Alain,’ Jean-Claude said. ‘This Nelia. Zelda. Are you in love with her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I realise that’s an unsatisfactory answer to your question, but I’ve asked it of myself, too, and the answer is the same. I don’t know. Besides, even if I am, it doesn’t matter. There could be no future for us, for many reasons.’

Their Calvados and tartes arrived. The woman at the next table took out a compact and checked her face in the mirror as she refreshed her lipstick, catching Banks’s eye briefly as she did so. He noticed a wedding ring on her left hand.

‘And that, mon ami, is that,’ said Jean-Claude. They clinked their Calvados glasses and drank. It was smooth as silk, but burned all the way down. ‘And now I have a question for you, Alain.’

‘What’s that?’

‘This Nelia. What is she really like?’