Not Dark Yet

6

It was early that Monday evening, and Banks was pottering about in his garden out back to a soundtrack of Schubert lieder sung by Anna Lucia Richter when he heard a car pull up in front. Curious, he walked through the house and opened the door to find Ray Cabbot standing there, hands on hips.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ were Ray’s first words.

Banks gestured him inside and shut the door. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘You know damn well what I mean,’ said Ray, following him along the corridor to the back door. ‘You and Zelda. I might be an old hippie, but I can still knock you into the middle of next week.’ He stood in the conservatory with his fists clenched.

‘Calm down, Ray. Come on outside and calm down. Tell me what’s up.’

‘Zelda is what’s up. As if you didn’t know. She’s upset. Ever since she came back from her talk with you this afternoon she’s been in a right state. What the fuck did you say to her?’

‘I can’t see how that was anything to do with me,’ Banks said. ‘We talked, yes, but I didn’t say anything to upset her. What did she say to you?’

‘She wouldn’t explain. She just said you interrogated her, humiliated her, as if she was a criminal. We had a row. Then she just went off to her studio and banged around. I’ve got a bloody lecture to give at Leeds Art Gallery tonight, so I left her there to stew. What’s it all about? You must know something.’

‘Ray, sit down.’

Ray sat on one of the spindly chairs around the table on Banks’s lawn. Birdsong filled the brief silence, and Banks hoped it would help to inject an atmosphere of calm. ‘Drink?’ he asked.

Ray shook his head, then said, ‘Go on, then. Just the one won’t do any harm. Got any beer?’

‘I think I might have a couple of bottles of Stella in the fridge.’

‘That’ll have to do, then.’

Banks went and fetched Ray a bottle of Stella and a glass of iced water for himself.

‘Not indulging?’ Ray asked.

‘Just thirsty from messing about in the garden,’ Banks said, then leaned forward. ‘I didn’t interrogate Zelda,’ he said. ‘We talked about some of the things she’s done to help us find Phil Keane and where it led her. And some of the things she hadn’t told me. Maybe I was a bit annoyed that she hadn’t shared this with me before, but I can’t see why it would upset her so much. I’m sorry if it did. She was a bit quiet and jumpy when she left me, but that’s all.’

‘What was it all about?’

Banks sipped some ice water. ‘Believe it or not, Ray, I was trying to help her out. There are some cops down in London who would dearly like to talk to her about various things, but an old mate gave me the chance to get in first. The softer option. Believe me, they wouldn’t have been as easy with her about it all as I was.’

‘About what?’

‘I can’t tell you that. But take it from me — Zelda may have made one or two foolish moves, but as far as I know she hasn’t committed any crimes.’

‘Well, thank the Lord for that.’ Ray buried his face in his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She’s been having a hard time lately. I’m worried as hell about her.’

‘But why? I thought things were going well for you.’

‘They are. Or so it seemed. I don’t know what it is. That’s why I–I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be blaming you. I just thought you might have an explanation for her moods.’

‘What moods?’

Ray slouched in his chair and guzzled beer from the bottle. Banks listened to a blackbird singing and admired the view of Tetchley Fell while Ray collected his thoughts. He could make out a couple of tiny figures way up on the top of the fell, walking the edge. Banks had been up there on a number of occasions and remembered how pure the air was and how invigorating the exercise. Even a climb as far as the Roman wall, where he had gone that morning with Zelda, was exhilarating.

Ray took some Rizla papers from his pouch of Drum and rolled a cigarette. He glanced up at Banks as he did so and said, ‘Just tobacco.’

Banks shrugged.

Ray lit the cigarette with a disposable lighter. Condensation was forming on his bottle, pooling at its base on the table. Banks hadn’t seen him for a few days and thought he was looking tired. Even so, you’d never think he was in his seventies, despite the straggly grey beard, bandana, and grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He resembled Willie Nelson, but with fewer wrinkles. Normally he had the drive and energy of a man twenty years younger, but not today.

‘Come on, then. Give,’ Banks said. ‘What’s up? What’s the real reason you wanted to see me, apart from the pleasure of knocking me into the middle of next week.’ Banks could hear faint strains of Schubert’s ‘Das Heimweh’ coming from inside the cottage. Ray was clearly too distracted to notice or he would surely have made some comment on the choice of music.

Ray looked sheepish. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Bit of hyperbole. I’m a pacifist at heart.’

‘Not to worry. Is it a police matter?’

‘With Zelda? Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Tell me, then.’

Ray took a drag on his cigarette and a pull on his beer. ‘She’s got something on her mind, Alan,’ he said. ‘This past month or so, ever since I got back from my big American trip. Since she got made redundant. She’s been distracted, paranoid, jumpy, on edge. Anxious. She disappears into her studio for ages.’

‘She said the same about you.’

‘That’s different.’

‘Any idea what the cause is?’

‘Not really. I’ve been thinking it might have something to do with Immigration Enforcement. You know she has to apply for this pre-settled status because she’s been living here under five years? Can you believe it? She has to fill in some long form, and it’s been giving her a lot of grief. They want stuff like P60s or P45s, utility bills, council tax receipts, passport stamps, proof of where she’s been and when, bank statements and so on.’

‘Well, surely that’s not a problem? The NCA would be able to supply details of her employment.’

‘She thinks they’ll just wash their hands of her now the unit’s been shut down.’

‘No. They don’t work like that. Besides, she should still have plenty of evidence to show how long she’s been over here.’

‘Everything’s in my name,’ Ray said. ‘The payments just come out of the bank automatically. Before we met she was practically living on the streets.’

‘Surely they would understand that?’

‘You and I might think so. But she’s been trying to live under the radar.’

‘She said the same thing, but I didn’t understand why.’

‘Circumstances. It’s partly her past, the Soviet legacy. Lists, interrogations, secret police, all that sort of thing. It’s anathema to her. She’s got a dodgy French passport, but she’s from Moldova. I didn’t know it, but Moldova isn’t even a member of the EU. That means she’s not technically an EU citizen. She’s not sure how well her French passport would hold up to scrutiny. She assures me it’s not forged or anything, it’s the genuine article, but she’s still not comfortable about it. I try to talk her down, you know, tell her not to worry, but it’s not easy. She’s convinced they’re looking for a reason to chuck her out of the country, especially now she’s unemployed. And not only because of all this Brexit rubbish. She thinks those two coppers who hassled her about her boss’s death are behind it, took a dislike to her, dug into her past and didn’t like what they found.’

‘Paul Danvers and Deborah Fletcher? Yes, I got an inkling she wasn’t too happy with them when we talked this morning. They’ve got nothing to do with Immigration Enforcement.’

‘Zelda’s got a bee in her bonnet about them. Thinks they’re all in cahoots. Like I said, she’s been acting paranoid. She thinks people are following her. She said they know things about her past, about the sex trafficking and all, and they could make it seem like she was a prostitute, an undesirable alien. She doesn’t like to talk to me about the old days, so I don’t push it. Oh, I know the big picture, what happened to her, and I know something big happened in Paris that changed everything, but I don’t know what. Even when I can get her to talk about the past she’s vague about it. Always skimpy on the details. Croatia, too, and Serbia.’

‘You can’t blame her, can you?’ said Banks. ‘The things that happened to her. She probably wants to forget, put the past behind her as best she can, the way our parents did with the war. It just sounds like she’s having a bout of uncertainty and anxiety, what with Brexit and losing her job. I’m sure it will work itself out in time.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Maybe she’ll run into problems with Immigration Enforcement and maybe not,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve heard the Home Office can be pretty nasty when they want. Or even stupid. Sometimes they don’t do anything when they really should. But it’s not as if she’s likely to be a burden on the state, is it, even if she is unemployed? And she did work for the government. They owe her something. Think about it. We’re not exactly a nation without a heart.’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past those fascist bastards these days.’

‘Ever the sixties firebrand, Ray.’

‘Someone has to be.’

‘I read the Guardian, too, Ray, but I don’t take it that seriously. Maybe you should try the Mail or the Telegraph as well and get a different perspective, figure out perhaps the truth lies somewhere between.’

‘Traitor. I think I’ll stick with Private Eye.’

Banks laughed. ‘There you go again.’

‘She’s even been talking about wanting to move to Italy or Greece.’

‘And you?’

‘I love Italy and Greece, but I love Britain more. It’s my home. Besides, I just moved from Cornwall to Yorkshire. I don’t want to move again. I’m too bloody old. And there’s Annie to consider. We’ve had a couple of arguments over it, Zelda and me.’ He paused and rolled another cigarette. ‘But if they treat her badly... I’ve considered getting an Irish passport, you know, to make travel easier if we do have to move or spend more time out of the country.’

‘How can you do that?’

‘My mother was Irish. Annie’s grandmother. Country girl from County Clare.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘Hell of a woman,’ said Ray. ‘Tough as nails. Ask Annie. They adored one another.’

‘I will.’ Banks drank some more water. It was already too warm. ‘I really don’t think Immigration Enforcement are after Zelda, though I could be wrong. They don’t confide in me. More likely it’s just a figment of her imagination.’

‘Is there any way you can find out? Put our minds at ease.’

There was one way Banks could think of: ask Dirty Dick Burgess.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, just try to carry on as normal. Whatever her problem is, she needs your support more than ever.’

Charlotte Westlake lived on a quiet tree-lined street of large detached houses in Adel, near Alwoodley in North Leeds. Gerry parked the car on the opposite side of the street, and she and Annie walked up the path by a well-kept lawn surrounded by colourful flower beds. It was early Monday evening. The house itself, half hidden by a fat old oak tree with a gnarled trunk, was an ordinary enough combination of stone and red brick, with a bay window on the ground floor and a dormer in the slate roof.

Annie rang the bell, and a few seconds later a woman answered. She was casually dressed in tight-fitting designer jeans and a white fuzzy top with a scalloped neckline. She was slender and tanned with expensively coiffed blonde hair tumbling in bouncy corkscrew waves over her shoulders. Sometimes Annie found herself wondering why some women paid a fortune to arrange their hair in exactly the kind of tangled mess her own naturally aspired to. This was one such moment. Annie pegged Charlotte as about forty, with smooth skin, high cheekbones and the kind of figure she would have had to work out at the gym at least three times a week to maintain. Annie felt immediately aware of her own failed determination to lose the ten pounds she had put on recently.

They showed their warrant cards, and Charlotte Westlake invited them in. Annie noticed gold embroidery around the shield-shaped back pockets of her jeans as she led them through to the back of the house. A glassed-in area like a conservatory, but still an integral part of the large open-plan living room, it overlooked a lush and rambling garden, complete with birdbath and gazebo, on to Adel Woods, a vast expanse of woodland, open meadows and heathland popular with walkers, cyclists, and joggers.

‘What a lovely view,’ said Annie.

Charlotte inclined her head regally. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘One never tires of it, no matter what the season. Please, sit down.’

Annie and Gerry sat in comfortable armchairs facing the windows, and Charlotte sat opposite them.

‘Can I ask you what this is about?’ she said.

‘Of course. It’s to do with Connor Clive Blaydon.’

‘Ah, yes. Poor Connor. Such a sad loss.’

Annie was surprised by the comment but held her tongue. As far as she was concerned there was nothing “poor” about Blaydon, and he was no great loss to humankind. ‘We understand you were Blaydon’s personal assistant,’ she said. ‘What exactly was your role?’

‘Just what you’d expect, really. Pretty much whatever came up. I helped him organise his busy schedule, reminded him of appointments and meetings and so on. Fielded requests I thought he wouldn’t want to be bothered with. Smoothed ruffled feathers, oiled creaky wheels, calmed troubled waters.’

‘Good Lord,’ said Annie, ‘I wish I had someone like you to organise my life for me.’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Maybe you should try it?’

‘On a copper’s salary? You must be joking. What about Blaydon’s parties?’

‘Them, too. Invitations, catering, drinks, performers sometimes — you know, a string quartet, DJ, or a rock band, that sort of thing. I used to be an events organiser. Am again, as a matter of fact.’

‘Do you have any of these old invitations?’ Annie asked.

‘No. I’m not speaking literally, you understand. I didn’t exactly address envelopes and lick stamps. We never sent anything by post. It was all fairly casual. Connor would give us a list of names, then my secretary would either phone, text, or email.’

‘Pity,’ Annie said. ‘Do you remember the names of any of the people who attended?’

‘It varied. I remember some of the more famous people, of course, and I can name you a few media people and local politicians. Tamara took care of most of it.’

‘Tamara?’

‘My secretary.’

‘Is she still around?’

‘I suppose so. She lives in Eastvale, I think.’ Charlotte paused. ‘Why do you want to know? The parties were pretty exclusive, but some of the most valued guests brought friends or colleagues, business people they wanted to impress. You could hardly refuse them entry. And there were gatecrashers on occasion, or people who had fallen out of favour trying to sneak back in. I suppose what I’m saying is there’s no real written record of everyone who attended them. There was a lot of word of mouth. Connor’s parties were very popular, sort of like an exclusive luxury nightclub.’

‘I’ll bet they were,’ said Annie. ‘Who manned the door?’

‘Roberts. He could be quite diplomatic when required to be.’

‘Did you usually attend?’

‘Me? Hardly ever. My job was done by the time the parties started. I had staff members working behind the scenes making sure everything went smoothly, and some making sure everyone’s drink was topped up, the canapés didn’t run out, and nobody was stuck alone in a corner. They chatted with guests, worked the room, helped make people feel at home.’ She laughed. ‘Glorified waitresses, really. I was usually in touch by phone over the evening in case there were any glitches, but there rarely were. Sometimes I’d drop by if there was a special event, like live music I wanted to hear, or a theme night.’

‘Theme night?’

‘Yes, Connor had themed parties, too, sometimes.’

‘Fancy dress?’

‘Sort of. Roman times, sixties, twenties flappers, that sort of thing.’

‘Fancy dress and period behaviour?’

‘Who knows what they got up to? If I did drop by, it would never be for long.’ She twisted a ring on her middle finger. ‘And certainly not to spy. Why are you asking me all this? What’s going on?’

‘Who made sure that the cocaine dishes remained full?’ Gerry asked.

‘So that’s it.’ Charlotte spread her hands. ‘I’d be a liar if I said that I didn’t know there were drugs around, just as there were sexual favours being given, and taken, but I can assure you I had nothing to do with either. I’ve told you. My work was behind the scenes.’

‘Boys will be boys,’ Annie said.

Charlotte shrugged.

‘But were you ever present when drugs were taken?’ Gerry asked.

‘Surely you can’t arrest me for that?’

‘I’m sure we could find a charge without resorting to making something up if we wanted to.’

‘Connor was my employer,’ said Charlotte. ‘It wasn’t my place to criticise his habits. You may judge me wealthy on the basis of this house, but I’m not a rich woman. I needed to work. Still do.’

‘You mentioned events organising?’ Annie said, in a move to get Charlotte off the defensive.

‘That’s right. I’m a partner in an events organising company.’

‘What kind of events?’

‘All sorts. Mostly corporate. Product launches, gala dinners, parties, retirement dos, presentations, AGMs, conventions. You name it. Pretty much anything except weddings. I hate weddings. They’re too much of a nightmare, and there are plenty of other companies around to deal with them.’

‘How did you get into the business?’

‘I suppose I drifted there. It was something I found I had a knack for — finding the right venue, the right band, or DJ if either was required, working with a chef on a menu, keeping costs down — whatever was required.’

‘Was that your background?’

‘Good heavens, no. I was fortunate enough to attend Oxford. I studied Economics and Management at St. Hilda’s. I suppose you could count that as a bit of a background.’

‘Cheltenham Ladies College?’

Charlotte laughed. ‘Where on earth did you get that idea? No, nothing like that. Just a Halifax comprehensive. Though I did get a scholarship.’

‘So you went into the business straight from university?’

‘Not quite. After three years of studying I felt I needed a break. Let my hair down. I went travelling with some like-minded uni friends.’

‘Where did you travel?’

‘All over. First the Far East. Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Then we spent some time bumming around the Mediterranean.’

‘Sounds exotic. Are you married?’

‘Widowed. Five years now. Leukaemia.’

‘Yet you still live here alone?’

Charlotte played with her ring again and glanced around the room. ‘In this huge mansion. I know it’s too big for me, but I couldn’t bear to leave,’ she said. ‘I know it would make sense. I could sell this place for a tidy sum, buy a nice little flat in Headingley or somewhere and live off the profit. But it’s my home. Gareth and I lived here all our married life. And it’s mortgage-free now. I can just about afford the upkeep as long as I keep working.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘Just ten short years, but I wouldn’t change them for anything.’

‘How did you come to work for Mr. Blaydon?’ Gerry asked.

‘I helped organise a gala dinner for him when I first got in the business. I’d known him vaguely on and off for a while. He used the company I worked for before frequently for his business events.’

‘So you go back a long way?’

‘Well, not that long,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m not that old.’

‘Was he a friend of your late husband’s?’

‘No.’ Charlotte paused. ‘Truth be told, Gareth disapproved of him, of his business practices.’

‘It’s true they left a lot to be desired,’ said Annie. ‘But you gave up event organising to become Blaydon’s PA?’

‘I needed a break, a change. A challenge, even. It seemed like a good opportunity. After Gareth died I had what you might call a fallow period. I needed to get back to work. Connor offered me a job. There was a fair bit of foreign travel involved, which I enjoy, and the duties weren’t too onerous.’

‘Where did the foreign travel take you?’

‘All over. Sometimes Connor had parties or business meetings at his villa on Corfu. I organised meetings in America sometimes, and a convention once in Cape Town.’

‘Sounds like fun,’ Annie said.

‘Yes. I enjoyed it.’

‘Did you ever meet someone called Leka Gashi in your travels?’

‘That animal? Towards the end, Connor was mixing with some seriously undesirable people. He said they were important to his property development plans, but if you ask me, they were just using him.’

‘For what?’

‘Contacts, mostly. He’d built up a lot of contacts within the community and the establishment over the years.’

‘What about money laundering?’ Gerry asked.

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘I understand that he invited people from all walks of life to his parties,’ Annie said. ‘At least the higher walks. Judges, senior police officers, politicians, clergy, actors, footballers, the odd rock star or two.’

‘Connor collected people. And he liked to be among the movers and shakers, the stars and entrepreneurs. He liked to be seen with them. Photographed.’

‘And Gashi?’

‘He wanted to appear respectable. I would have said it was impossible for a man like him, but he thought that with Connor’s contacts and prestige, some of it would rub off on him. Like the others, he probably thought that knowing Connor would make him appear respectable.’

‘But instead some of Gashi’s criminality rubbed off on Connor?’

‘I don’t know about that. I wasn’t his business manager. He had other people to deal with all that stuff. I never saw him do anything illegal. I just didn’t like Gashi. He was a crude pig of a man.’

‘Was he sexually aggressive?’

‘Not towards me, except with his eyes. But I would imagine so, yes. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, no matter what.’

‘As we understand it, they were old friends. Blaydon had known Gashi for years. Did you know that?’

Charlotte blinked and gave a brief shake of her head. Her hair danced over her shoulders.

Gerry glanced at Annie and raised an eyebrow. ‘What about Petar Tadić?’ she asked.

‘Another of Connor’s gangster friends. Fortunately, I didn’t have much to do with him.’

‘We think Tadić supplied the girls. What did you know about the sexual favours?’ Annie asked.

‘Nothing. That was purely Connor’s domain. As I said, I did the food, sometimes the entertainment, the ambience, but the drugs and women were nothing to do with me.’

‘You didn’t help Tadić supply girls for him?’

‘God, no. What do you think I am?’

‘You must have known what was going on. Couples disappearing into bedrooms, girls hanging around naked by the pool.’

‘I know there were always plenty of pretty girls about, models and so on, but beyond that I didn’t inquire. And I was rarely present. It wasn’t my business. I just assumed they were WAGs, as I believe they’re called. Many of Connor’s guests had beautiful models or actresses as girlfriends, and some of the wealthy and powerful men had young attractive wives. And the last time I heard, sex wasn’t illegal.’

‘Depends on how old the people involved are,’ Annie said.

‘And how willing,’ Gerry added.

‘Are you saying the girls were underage?’

‘Some of them look that way,’ said Gerry. ‘Didn’t you notice? Didn’t you think so at the time?’

‘Like I said, I wasn’t there often. And when I was, I hardly paid them any attention. They were just decoration. I had other things to think about.’

‘Of course,’ said Annie. ‘Like making sure everyone’s glass was full.’

Charlotte stood up. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I think you should go now.’

‘I must say,’ Annie went on, ‘this seems rather naive of you, assuming they were wives and girlfriends. You don’t strike me as a particularly naive woman. Didn’t you feel uncomfortable, being involved with all those orgies? It wasn’t what you signed up for, was it?’

‘I told you, I wasn’t around for any orgies. Maybe I was burying my head in the sand, not wanting to know why the women were there, or where they came from. But things changed, slowly, subtly. I was starting to feel uncomfortable with Connor’s new friends and ways. When I first started three years ago, things were far more civilised, before Gashi and Tadić appeared on the scene. In fact, I left at the end of April, before... before Connor died. I had the opportunity to return to my old line of work in partnership with a friend.’

‘Mrs. Westlake,’ said Annie, ‘Connor Blaydon was murdered. He didn’t just die. Someone helped him on his way. Let’s call a spade a spade.’

‘Gashi.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He seems like the sort of man who would do... that.’

‘Kill someone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever hear him talk about killing people?’

‘Good Lord, no. He wouldn’t talk like that in front of me. But I’ll bet you he was involved. Either him or one of his little gofers.’

‘Can you help us prove it?’

‘No. I told you, I was involved in getting back into events planning. I didn’t like the company Connor was keeping, the way things were going. There seemed no more... moral centre, for want of a better term. Things were spiralling into chaos.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Annie. ‘Please sit down again. We’ve got a few more questions.’

Charlotte sat down slowly but remained on the edge of her seat, as if she were going to get up and leave the room at any moment.

Gerry consulted her notebook. ‘There was a party at Mr. Blaydon’s house on 13 April, this year,’ she said. ‘Were you present?’

‘It’s highly unlikely. As I said, I rarely attended. Let me consult my diary.’

‘Would you do that, please? And while you’re at it, perhaps you could also let us know where you were on 22 May.’

Charlotte left the room for a couple of minutes and returned with a large desk diary. ‘No,’ she said, holding it open for them to see. ‘I thought so. I was out of the country the week of 13 April.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Costa Rica.’

‘Costa Rica,’ said Annie. ‘Very nice. Why were you there?’

‘Connor sent me. I was organising an international business conference.’

‘Was that normal?’

‘Perfectly. I told you my job involved a certain amount of travel. Connor was a partner in a new hotel complex development there, and he wanted to bring the investors together with the ideas men and the architects. They all needed to be wined and dined.’

‘Naturally,’ said Annie. ‘Would you have any idea at all who might have been at that party?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Who might know?’

‘Someone who was there, I imagine. Maybe Gashi?’

‘He was there?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Ever heard of someone called Phil Keane? Might have been a friend of Blaydon and Tadić.’

‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’

‘Hugh Foley?’ Annie said, remembering what Banks had told her about Keane’s relationship with the murdered Faye Butler.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘And the 22 May?’

‘Nothing specific,’ said Charlotte. ‘Though I think we had a book award dinner to organise in Bradford. I remember it was towards the end of last month.’

‘Would anyone be able to corroborate that?’

Charlotte gave her a puzzled glance. ‘Corroborate? Why?’

‘Would anyone?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. I’d have been back and forth, setting things up. Someone might have seen me.’

Annie took the enhanced photo of the girl from the SD out of her briefcase and passed it to Charlotte. ‘Do you recognise her?’

Charlotte examined the photo through narrowed eyes and passed it back. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t. Though I’m not sure I’d recognise my best friend from that. She looks rather the worse for wear.’

‘We think the girl was drunk and possibly drugged,’ Annie said. ‘And though the images are hard to distinguish, the video clearly shows that she was raped.’

‘Raped!’ Charlotte repeated. ‘I don’t know what to say. What video is this?’

‘It appears that Blaydon’s right-hand man Neville Roberts left a small collection of X-rated movies behind.’

‘From the parties?’

‘Mini spy-cams in the bedrooms.’

‘My God. I had no idea that Connor filmed his guests without their permission.’

‘Not Blaydon,’ Annie said. ‘Neville Roberts. Do you know anything about him?’

‘Not much. He was a bit of a dark horse, clearly. I hardly ever talked to him. He was around often, yes, but he was a rather taciturn person, quite surly, and our worlds rarely crossed. He was more of a manservant, really, a sort of butler. Connor liked the luxury. But Roberts had nothing to do with Connor’s business dealings.’ She tapped the photograph. ‘I have to say I’ve never seen anyone in that state at Connor’s house. Not while I’ve been there.’

‘But you’re so rarely there,’ Gerry reminded her.

‘Yes. Even so. I always thought that whatever went on, they still remained fairly wholesome and civilised.’

‘A sort of Playboy Mansion thing?’

‘If you like. Not that I’ve ever been to a Playboy mansion.’

‘You’re doing it again. Pardon me, but isn’t that a little naive? Especially as you mentioned things spiralling into chaos.’

‘Perhaps. As I said, I was fast becoming disillusioned. Even so, I’m honestly shocked by that picture. This is appalling.’

‘Hardly surprising,’ said Annie. ‘As I said, she’d just been raped. We have the whole thing on a MiniSD card.’

‘No,’ Charlotte whispered, hand at her throat. ‘I still don’t believe it. Did Connor do this?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I don’t know... I... you said it was one of his parties, you’re asking me about it... I don’t know... I just...’

‘Unfortunately,’ Gerry said, ‘this is the closest we can get to a likeness of the victim. As you say, it’s not very good. And there are no usable facial images of the man involved. Was this an ordinary party or a themed one?’

‘Ordinary, I think. At least I don’t remember any mention of a theme.’

‘You’re sure you don’t recognise her?’

‘I’d tell you if I did.’

‘She didn’t work for you behind the scenes or anything?’

‘I honestly can’t tell from that photo.’

‘We’d really like to find out who this girl is,’ Annie said, ‘and it goes without saying that we’d like to catch the man who raped her. If you remember anything, however insignificant it seems to you, please let us know.’ She passed Charlotte a card. ‘And we’d appreciate a list of names. Any guests you might remember, especially badly behaved ones, and the names and addresses of your employees who attended that party.’

‘Of course.’ Charlotte stood up again and touched her hair.

She showed them out and they saw her standing at the bay window watching as they got in the car. ‘What do you think?’ Gerry asked.

‘For all her shock and outrage,’ said Annie, ‘I don’t think she was telling us everything she knew.’

‘I got the impression that she was holding back, too. Maybe I should have a look into her background?’

‘And there was something else,’ Annie said.

Gerry headed for the ring road. ‘What?’

‘She never even offered us a bloody cup of tea.’

‘So you’re absolutely sure no one from the NCA or Immigration Enforcement is following Zelda, or making enquiries about her past?’

‘I told you, Banksy,’ said Burgess. ‘I’d know. And they’re not. Danvers and Debs aren’t convinced that Hawkins wasn’t bent, but they don’t think Zelda had anything to do with his death. They just want to know why she was poking around asking questions about him. What you’ve just told me about the Phil Keane problem should settle that line of inquiry for them. She was clearly doing it to help you.’

‘Have they been talking to immigration about her?’

‘Not their style.’

‘So I can tell Ray there’s nothing to worry about?’

‘Yes. At least nothing that I know of.’

‘OK. Thanks.’

‘No problemo. See you later.’

At least he didn’t say ‘alligator,’ Banks thought as he hung up. Burgess’s Americanisms were a bit hard to take sometimes, especially when they were archaic, too.

So that was that. First Banks had told Burgess the details of his talk with Zelda, then Burgess had told him how he was certain she wasn’t being targeted. He would find time to pop by and see Ray and Zelda together tomorrow morning and give them the good news. If Zelda was suffering from paranoia about the immigration process, nothing he said would cure that completely, but at least it would set Ray at ease and put him in the right state of mind to be there for her.

It was almost eight o’clock. After the phone call, Banks got in his car and picked up a Chinese takeaway in Helmthorpe, and before doing anything else, he tucked into his spring rolls, chicken fried rice, and garlic shrimps in the kitchen, drenching them with lashings of soy sauce and washing it all down with simple tap water.

It was another mild evening. After dinner, Banks took George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman at the Charge outside, along with a glass of Côtes du Rhône Villages, and sat in his lounge chair facing Tetchley Fell to read for a while.

At first, it was enough just to sip his wine and feel himself unwind as he gazed on the fellside with its criss-cross patterns of drystone walls and enjoyed the gentle breeze on his skin. The breath of wind took the edge off the heat and carried the sweet, dry smell of fresh-mown grass with it, along with a hint of wild garlic and mint. The green fields on the gentle lower slopes slowly gave way to sere grass higher up, where he had walked with Zelda, and finally to outcrops of grey limestone at the top like Henry Moore sculptures shining with an unexpected golden hue in the evening sunlight. Occasionally a sheep bleated way up on the hill, and the swifts made their graceful loops and spirals in the sky. There seemed to be fewer of them this year, he had noticed.

Often when Banks watched the aerial ballet, he thought of Bob Dylan’s line about a bird never being free from the chains of the sky. He had also been recently discussing some of Dylan Thomas’s poetry with his informal tutor, Linda Palmer, over Sunday lunches up at Low Moor Inn. As far as he was concerned, the jury was still out on the boozy, bardic Welshman, but he had loved the music of ‘Fern Hill,’ whatever the words meant, and the line ‘I sang in my chains like the sea’ had stuck with him. It was similar in meaning to the other Dylan’s observation, he thought.

But it didn’t do to overanalyse too much. He had learned that from Linda. Poetry wasn’t something to be translated or decoded into a ‘message,’ the way it had been taught at school. True, some poems were overburdened with learning and literary allusion, and they needed some level of exegesis, but most poems meant what they said and said what they meant in the best way, often the only way, possible.

It had certainly been an interesting day. First the walk with Zelda, then Ray’s angry visit. He knew that Zelda had gone away annoyed at him for pressing her on matters she would rather have kept to herself, no matter how hard he had tried to be understanding. The thing was, he still wasn’t certain that she had told him all she knew. She was holding back about something, but he didn’t know what it could be. She had told him only things she thought he already knew, or might suspect. Yes, she had come clean about seeing Keane with Hawkins and asking questions about her late boss, and she had told him about finding Faye Butler, and how that had led to a dead end. But had it? For some reason, he thought, there was more. And he couldn’t forget that Faye Butler had ended up dead — tortured and murdered — not so long after Zelda’s visit to her.

Ray’s concerns also worried him. It was natural enough that Ray would see possible immigration and residence problems as the main source of Zelda’s anxiety and depression, but Banks wasn’t convinced. Yes, she was worried about being deported back to Moldova, but he didn’t believe that was all that was worrying her. He remembered the times during their walk when she had looked over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. Who else did she think was after her? Her old abductors and abusers? But why? Surely they had lost track of her by now. It was also unlikely that Tadić and his like would even remember Zelda, let alone recognise her after all these years. She was the super-recogniser, not him. But until she was willing to talk even more openly, he realised that he wasn’t going to find out anything else. And he was still no closer to Phil Keane than he had been when Zelda had first mentioned seeing the photo of him with Tadić, before last Christmas.

Banks opened his book and slipped back into Harry Flashman’s version of the disastrous Charge of the Light Brigade as he sipped some more wine. Colonial Britannia at her best. And so the evening passed, quietly and pleasantly as the sun made its way down in the western sky, below the hills, painting an abstract design first of grey and pink behind the slow-moving strata of long thin clouds, then of crimson, orange and purple under the darker, heavier ones. In the distance, a car’s rear lights followed the winding road over Tetchley Pass into the next dale.

Banks sat on, sipping his wine and enjoying the nature show, until the evening’s chill made him shiver and there was no longer enough light left to read by. Then he took his wine and moved back inside. He checked his phone to see if he had missed any messages. He hadn’t.

When the evenings stretched out as they did in summer, he rarely watched television or movies, unless it was raining. He didn’t even listen to much music. Sometimes he played the guitar Brian had bought him, wondering when he would get the fingering of even the basic three chords exactly right. And that reminded him: it was only two days until the Blue Lamps’ farewell concert at the Sage. Tracy and Mark would be going with him, along with Ray and Zelda. It promised to be a fine evening. Maybe they would all manage to get together with Brian for a drink or two over the river afterwards.

He wondered how Tracy and Mark were getting on in Tenerife, where they had gone for their honeymoon. He was glad they had decided against a destination wedding, unlike so many other young couples these days. It was selfish in the extreme, he thought, going off to Cyprus or Malta to get married when half your family either couldn’t afford to attend, or were too old and ill to travel. Healthy and independent as they were, Banks’s parents wouldn’t have been willing or able to travel so far for their granddaughter’s wedding.

Tonight Banks felt restless for some reason, and he couldn’t settle down with the guitar. He was sick to death of playing ‘Bobby Shafto’ but seemed unable to move beyond it. He searched through YouTube for interesting music and ended up watching a few Grateful Dead concert clips.

Halfway through a fine ‘Scarlet Begonias,’ Banks’s mobile played its blues riff. He was in half a mind not to answer, but habit kicked in and he put the TV on pause and picked it up. It was going on for eleven o’clock, and he always felt a tremor of apprehension when the phone rang so late. Had something happened to Tracy? Or Brian?

He recognised the number as Ray Cabbot’s. Puzzled, he answered, but couldn’t make out what Ray was saying at first. He asked him to repeat it, and this time it came through loud and clear: ‘She’s gone,’ Ray said. ‘It’s Zelda. She’s gone.’