Not Dark Yet

9

Ray looked terrible, Annie thought, when he answered the door to Banks’s cottage. And it was hard not to feel hurt at the expression of disappointment that crept over his features when he saw her. She wouldn’t deny that there were ‘issues’ between her and Zelda, but that didn’t mean she wished her any harm. Whatever Annie thought of Ray’s choice of partner, he clearly loved Zelda, and it was good for him to have someone to share his life with. If only she weren’t so damned young and attractive. It was hard to trust anyone as beautiful as her, and Annie lived in fear that she would run off with some young stud and break Ray’s heart. Literally.

‘Annie,’ he said. ‘I thought... Is there any news?’

‘Sorry.’

For a few moments they just stood there staring at one another, then they hugged, long and hard, Ray sobbing on Annie’s shoulder. A little embarrassed, they moved apart and Annie followed Ray through the front room and down the hall, watching his elbows move as he rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, then through Banks’s kitchen and conservatory. ‘I was sitting out back,’ he said.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘I’m not very good company right now, but you’re quite welcome.’

Annie smiled. ‘Oh, Dad, I didn’t expect you to be good company. After all, it’s not often you are.’ She hardly ever called him ‘Dad’ or ‘Father,’ but he didn’t react when she did this time. Nor did he react to her little tease.

‘My house is swarming with coppers,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be respectful.’

They sat down. ‘Want a drink?’ Ray asked.

‘No, thanks. I’m not stopping long. Alan told me you were here, and I wanted to see how you’re doing.’

Ray spread his arms, then started rolling a cigarette. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as you can see.’

‘We’ll find her,’ Annie said.

‘I think I might have one. A drink, that is.’ He left his unlit cigarette on the table and disappeared inside, emerging a few seconds later with a tumbler of whisky.

Annie felt like telling him to take it easy with the booze, but she held her tongue. It would only antagonise him. And maybe a drop or two of whisky wasn’t such a bad idea for him at the moment. ‘I know you think I don’t like Zelda,’ she said, ‘and I know we got off on the wrong foot, but just put it down to me being silly, my silly feelings. And being overprotective of you. You know I want you to be happy, and if she makes you happy—’

‘She does,’ Ray said. ‘You have no idea. Since your mother...’

‘That’s a long time ago,’ Annie said.

‘I haven’t forgotten her, love, you know that. I never could. Zelda’s not a replacement, she’s... I don’t know... a new start for me. Something I thought was way behind me. And beyond. You can’t always be prepared for when things like that happen.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Annie said.

‘I’m telling you. It’s true.’ Tears welled up in his red eyes again. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to her.’

‘Oh, Dad.’ Annie reached out and touched his arm. ‘There is some news,’ she said. ‘And another reason I’m here. I just talked to Alan on the phone, and he told me Mick Slater from the Black Bull said there was a bloke in the pub asking after Zelda the other day, or at least someone who resembled her very closely. Said he didn’t tell him anything. Didn’t like the look of him.’

Ray picked up the cigarette, rolled it around between his fingers for a while, then put it in his mouth and lit it. ‘They think that’s the man who took her?’

‘We don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘But we’ll definitely be checking into it.’

‘Any idea who he is?’

‘No.’ Annie paused. ‘But Alan said it might be a good idea, if you’re up to it, if maybe you could go up there and help with a sketch. Mr. Slater can give a pretty good description for you to work with. Only if you feel up to it. I’ll drive you.’

Ray stood up so fast he knocked his tumbler over on the table and whisky flowed over the sides. ‘Do I feel up to it? You bet I do. Come on, what are we waiting for?’

‘No, the nose isn’t quite right. A bit broader. And there’s a sort of bump.’ Mick Slater touched his own nose. ‘Right here, about halfway up. As if it was broken or something. And the lips were a bit thicker.’

Ray got to work with the rubber then put pencil to paper again.

‘That’s it,’ said Mick. ‘Now the eyebrows. A bit thicker, too. Not bushy or anything, but not quite so thin. Dark and heavy, and nearly meeting in the middle. A heavier brow. Hairline back a bit. That’s it. That’s him.’

They were in a small office behind the bar, and there was just enough room for Ray and Mick inside, while Banks leaned against the door jamb gazing on from the sidelines. It was always fascinating to watch a master at work. Ray was a serious artist, not a police sketch artist, but he had helped Banks out in that capacity before, and he was good at it. It had seemed only natural to ask Annie to try and get him to help sketch a description of the stranger, with Slater’s help. So far, things seemed to be going well.

Banks turned and glanced around the pub. He had accepted Slater’s offer of a pint of shandy when Ray arrived and was glad that he had. It was getting hot in there, and the sweetness of the lemonade and the bitterness of the beer made a perfect antidote to the heat of the day. The Black Bull was an odd sort of place: dark and dingy on the inside, with an uneven flagstone floor, scratched tables and rickety chairs, but a great summer draw outside with its tables looking out on the village green and a beer garden out back. Unlike the Relton Arms, it had a small playground area and a bouncy castle for the kiddies. Banks could imagine the interior on a dark winter’s night, the locals sitting silently around a blazing fire, dogs dreaming at their feet, while the wind howled and the rain battered at the windows outside. Lock-ins would be common there, and the local bobby would probably be on the inside of them.

Finally, Ray put down the finishing touches and passed the sketch to Banks.

‘It’s as good as I can get,’ said Slater. ‘I’m not that great at detail.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Banks, then glanced at Ray. ‘Thanks. Look, I have a pretty good idea of who this might be. I’ll show it to a couple of colleagues who will know for certain and get back to you.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘I’ll check it out, Ray. If I’m right, it’ll help us with the search.’

‘Why won’t you tell me now? What don’t you want me to know?’

Banks turned to Slater. ‘Thanks for your time and trouble, Mr. Slater,’ he said. ‘And thanks for not giving this stranger any information. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep quiet about this until I’ve had the chance to check a few things out.’

Slater nodded, and they returned to the bar with their drinks.

‘Why won’t you tell me what you think?’ Ray persisted. ‘Who is it? Why would he want to take Zelda?’

‘Because I’m not sure yet,’ Banks said.

‘But if you’re right, is it bad news?’

Banks took a long pull on his shandy and said, ‘Yes, Ray. You want me to tell you. All right. If it’s who I think it is, it’s bad news.’

‘It’s Petar Tadić, all right,’ said Burgess, just seconds after Banks had emailed him Ray’s sketch. ‘Where did you get it?’

Banks told him about Mick Slater and Ray collaborating.

‘Brazen bastard, isn’t he?’ said Burgess. ‘If you need any help on this, we’ve got trained experts here we can send up. Negotiators and the like.’

‘Thanks, I might take you up on that if we don’t find her soon,’ Banks said. ‘But right now there’s nothing to negotiate. I’d appreciate it if you could find out whether Tadić is back in London, though. And if you find him, bring him in for questioning.’

‘We can try. We have a pretty good idea of some of his haunts, but they keep changing. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘By the way, talking about haunts, have you ever heard of the Hotel Belgrade?’

There was a brief pause before Burgess answered. ‘It used to be one of their hangouts, the Tadićs and their crew. Why?’

‘No reason. It’s just something that came up.’ Banks could hardly tell Burgess that the hotel was mentioned in Zelda’s notebook. ‘Used to be?’

‘Yes. It seems they’ve moved out en masse. We’re not sure where yet.’

‘When was this?’

‘Less than a month ago.’

‘One witness from the village says there was another man waiting in the car for Petar. What about the brother, Goran? Anything on him?’

‘Goran hasn’t been seen lately,’ said Burgess. ‘He must be lying low. Probably on holiday in Split or somewhere. These people are always on the move. That’s how they keep a few steps ahead of us.’

‘Thanks. Have you got an up-to-date photo of Petar? That might work better than a quick sketch.’

‘I’ll check.’

‘Great. If you find one, can you send it directly to Adrian Moss?’ Banks gave him Moss’s fax, phone, and email. ‘In the meantime, I’ll have Adrian get the sketch out to the news media, as well as on Facebook, Twitter, and so on. Adrian’s already blasted them with Zelda’s disappearance, so they’ll all have their tongues hanging out for more. And we’ll get copies to patrol cars, beat officers, PCSOs, the lot.’ They said their goodbyes and Banks hung up.

Adrian Moss was their media liaison officer, and though he was a bit of a trendy prat, with his wet-look hair and shirt hanging out, Banks had to admit he was very good at his job. If anyone could saturate the media with Zelda’s disappearance and give the press a good story, Moss could. The photo of Zelda that Ray had given them wouldn’t do any harm, either. Most men who saw it would certainly be motivated to find her, and quite a few women, too.

Moss’s only problem was that he didn’t appreciate his own talent for blowing smoke and always seemed to want to give away far more than Banks was comfortable with. He would have his work cut out when the national media horde arrived the following day. Which reminded Banks that Ray would need to be protected from them. The CSIs had finished for the day at Ray’s house, and he had gone straight home from the Black Bull, so Banks had Newhope to himself. He was willing to take Ray in again tomorrow, if necessary, when the CSIs would no doubt turn up again.

On his way home, Banks had made a detour to the station. Moss had already got one of the TV crews set up in the press room, so Banks had recorded a brief impromptu appeal on television for any sightings of Zelda. Now he sat outside his cottage in the mild evening warmth, a glass of wine on the table in front of him.

Why had Tadić abducted Zelda? And why now? Banks wouldn’t have been surprised if Tadić didn’t even remember what he had done to her thirteen years ago. So why was she now suddenly so valuable, or so dangerous, to him?

Banks flipped through the Moleskine notebook again. The last entry concerned a visit to Chișinău at the end of the previous week to see someone called Vasile Lupescu, another demon from her past. There were several lengthy descriptions of the Moldovan countryside, complete with its wineries and peasants in traditional dress, along with old memories of Chișinău. On her flight home, she had written about their conversation, how Lupescu had at first denied setting her up for her abductors, then admitted it, and finally insisted that he had been forced into it by threats against his family. It was a tense and dramatic scene, and it confirmed Banks’s suspicions that the notebook was most likely a record of feelings and inquiries about her past, perhaps noted down for use in a story or memoir of some kind. Zelda clearly felt very strongly about the people responsible for ruining her life — and quite rightly so — and this notebook must be one of her ways of expressing all that, including fantasies about what she would like to do to some of them.

But it could get her into trouble. The disjointed meanderings might mean nothing to most people, but some police officers took everything quite literally, made no allowance for wishful thinking and fantasy. It could get Banks into trouble, too. He was beginning to think that taking it might have been the first step on a slippery slope to career suicide. At the very least it was misappropriating evidence. What on earth did he think he was doing? Protecting Zelda? From what? Whatever his rationale, Banks knew he should have left it where it was, let it become an exhibit in whatever followed. But it was too late for that now. There was no way he could explain hanging on to it to his superiors, and he knew as well as anyone that what might seem like a minor transgression could quickly blow up into a full IOPC investigation, meaning at least temporary suspension, and possibly being fired.

The Hotel Belgrade, Burgess had said, used to be a hangout for Tadić and his cronies until recently. How had Zelda found out about it? From Faye Butler? And had she gone there searching for Keane, only to find Goran Tadić instead? How would she have reacted to that? By fantasising about killing him? What had happened at the Hotel Belgrade? In their talk at the Relton Arms yesterday, Zelda hadn’t mentioned anything about finding the Tadićs in London.

Just in case, Banks phoned the hotel, identified himself and asked if a woman matching Zelda’s description had checked in recently. The answer was no. Had someone of that description ever stayed at the hotel? They couldn’t possibly remember something like that. Guests came and went, many attractive women. Had she been seen there around a month ago? There was no way of knowing that. CCTV? Overwritten by now. Besides, there had been personnel changes, too, and changes in management. It was a fast turnover business. Tadić? No, they had never heard of anyone by that name.

Frustrated by the lack of response, Banks considered arranging for a team to search the place, but he had no real evidence for ordering such an action. And what would they find? As Burgess had said, the Hotel Belgrade used to be the Tadićs’ hangout, but they had moved on, and no one there admitted to having heard of them. In any case, they would be unlikely to be keeping Zelda there.

Blue tits and goldfinches flitted around his shrubbery, ate at the feeder and splashed in the birdbath, until a local cat jumped over the wall, arched its back and mewed at Banks, then loped on. Only a robin, intent on searching the grass for worms at the bottom of the garden, was unflustered and didn’t fly off. The other birds returned, and bees sucked on fuchsia that hung from branches like teardrops of blood.

Banks yawned. It had been a long day, and he hadn’t had much sleep the previous night at Ray’s. There wasn’t anything more he could do tonight, and if he was going to be of any use in the search for Zelda tomorrow, he was going to have to be on the ball. So instead of pouring another glass of wine, he picked up Ray’s overflowing ashtray from the table and went back inside, where he dumped its contents into the waste bin and went to bed, taking his mobile with him. Some Brian Eno ambient music might see him off to sleep early tonight.

Zelda woke up with a dry mouth and a terrible headache. When she found the nerve to open her eyes, she thought at first that she was in complete darkness. As her sight adjusted slowly in what little light there was around the boarded-up window, she realised she was in a room, lying on a floor that felt like bare boards. When she tried to move, she found that she was chained by her right ankle to a heavy old iron radiator fixed to the wall. She tried to jerk free a number of times but quickly realised that she couldn’t. Then she shouted out, but her voice merely echoed in the empty room.

As her eyes adapted further, she came to see that the room she was in was more like an office than anything else. All the furniture had been removed, desk and filing cabinets, and she couldn’t make out the colour of the walls. They seemed to be partially covered in that material with holes in it. She had seen it before in offices. The ceiling seemed high, and there was only the one window. Her hands were tied together with plastic handcuffs that only tightened if she tried to escape from them.

So what had happened? Zelda tried to piece it all together. Why was it all so vague? She and Raymond had argued and she had shut herself in her studio drinking wine and working on a painting. Angry brushstrokes. Red slashes. Why was she angry? Alan, that was why. He had pushed her into telling him certain things that she hadn’t wanted him to know. Maybe enough for him to find his way to the truth. And Raymond had hardly been sympathetic. Raymond. What happened to him? He had gone out, of course. The Leeds Art Gallery lecture he had been so nervous about. But would they leave someone to wait for him and hurt him when he got back?

As far as she could tell, she seemed OK in herself, apart from the dry mouth and headache. They had injected her with some sort of anaesthetic, she remembered; that was what was making her feel this way. Nausea, too, perhaps because the room was so hot and stuffy. But there was no pain in any of her limbs, and everything felt intact. She hadn’t been raped or sexually interfered with in any way. She would know.

She hadn’t heard their car. All she knew was that suddenly the studio door burst open and there stood two men. One of them was Petar Tadić, of that she was certain — she would recognise his stocky body, his near non-existent neck and his beady eyes anywhere, even after all the years — but she didn’t recognise the other one. As far as she could tell, Tadić didn’t recognise her.

Had they found out what she had done to Goran and tracked her down? That could be the only explanation. It was as she had feared; they had resources, contacts, and methods that the police lacked. Something might have led them to poor innocent Faye Butler, and under torture Faye might have given them enough clues to lead to Zelda. They wouldn’t have reported Goran’s death to the authorities, but would most likely have got rid of the body themselves, perhaps in several pieces. She had thrown her glass at them and struggled when they grabbed her, but the needle went in and its effect was quick. She remembered nothing more, not even how much time had passed, how long she had been out.

Now here she was, shackled in her prison. What was their plan? What were they going to do to her? If they wanted her dead — an eye for an eye — then surely they would have killed her by now. Or did they intend to kill her slowly? Starvation, perhaps? Just leave her here, chained to the radiator, until she died.

She hadn’t eaten since her lunch with Banks, and she was starving already. How long ago that seemed. How petty her irritation with him. She wished he would walk through the door right now. She could do with a Willie Garvin to rescue her. What would Modesty Blaise do? Try to escape, obviously. But how? She looked around her in the darkness, but it was hopeless.

Zelda tugged at the chain again; it was still securely fastened to the radiator. And the iron chain was padlocked tightly around her foot. A heavy, strong lock, by the feel of it. She pulled at it, but it did no good. Though her hands were cuffed in front of her, rather than behind, they still weren’t much use. The cuffs were tight and hurt whenever she tried to reach out. She wasn’t going to escape trussed up like this. Somehow, she had to get free of her chains. But how?

As she was thinking of possibilities, she heard footsteps coming closer down the hall outside her door.