Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘Of course.’
Danvers put down the ballpoint pen he had been clicking for the past few minutes. ‘I do hope you realise the seriousness of the situation, Ms Melnic,’ he said. ‘You must be aware that, even as a civilian consultant attached to a multi-national policing operation, you are in a unique position, both because of your special skills and, what shall we call it, your personal acquaintance with the area under investigation. Because of what you know.’
Area under investigation, Zelda thought. That was a nice way of putting what she had been through at the hands of people she now worked hard to identify and put away. Talk about English understatement.
‘Much of the information you deal with every day is highly secret,’ Danvers went on, ‘and Mr Hawkins was a high-ranking officer of the National Crime Agency, as you know, with strong connections to the security services. You signed the Official Secrets Act. Surely you must be aware of what that means? When something like this happens – whatever the reason – we have a duty to investigate the circumstances. It’s also clear that you have lived a somewhat peripatetic and bohemian existence. There are many gaps, many periods during which . . . well . . . anything could have happened. People change. Loyalties change.’
Zelda nodded. ‘Things certainly did happen, to put it mildly. But my loyalties didn’t change. I understand what you’re saying. I just can’t help you, that’s all. For a start, I wasn’t even in this country most of my life, and for another thing, I’ve already told you, I’m very part-time here. If you believe that Mr Hawkins was murdered, then I wish you the best of luck with your investigation. If you think that his loyalties had changed, then I can’t help you with that. He didn’t confide in me. As far as I could tell, he was a good man.’ Zelda hoped her nose wasn’t growing as she spoke, that the itch she felt there was just an itch.
The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that putting a pot of oil on the stove was something that would never have entered Hawkins’s mind, even if he had been drinking. And no doubt the ensuing fire would have obliterated any evidence there may have been as to what had really happened.
‘Did you ever notice, in the times you were here lately, anything unusual about Mr Hawkins’s behaviour?’ Danvers asked.
‘I can’t say that I did.’
‘When were you last here?’
‘April. A month ago exactly.’
‘Did you notice any changes in his behaviour, his routine?’
‘No. As far as I could tell, Mr Hawkins was a creature of habit.’
‘Did you ever have any disagreements with him?’ Deborah asked.
‘No. I simply got on with my job. To be honest, it didn’t involve working closely with others. Or with Mr Hawkins. Mostly I examined photographs, CCTV and video footage. Sometimes out in the field, but mostly here, at my desk.’
‘Did he ever ask you to do anything you found unusual or suspicious?’ Deborah asked.
‘Like what?’
‘Deliver a package or a message, for example.’
‘Never.’
‘Have you ever seen him with anyone he shouldn’t have been with?’
‘How would I know who he should or shouldn’t be with?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. Anyone shady. Anyone you recognised, with your skills. From the past, perhaps, or from one of the many photographs you’ve seen.’
‘No,’ said Zelda, feeling her nose itch again.
‘You said you worked in the field on occasion. I understand you visited airports and train terminals to scan the crowds?’ Danvers said.
‘Sometimes. If we had information that a person of interest might be coming in, someone from Special Branch or MI5 would come and take me off for the day. But it didn’t happen often. My area of expertise is relatively narrow, and very specialised.’
‘I think what we’re getting at is whether you ever saw Mr Hawkins with any of these people you might have spotted at airports or railway stations?’
‘No.’
‘And what is your role exactly? How do you work?’
‘You already know that.’
‘Clarify it for us,’ said Deborah.
Zelda swallowed. She never liked this bit. ‘Faces,’ she replied. ‘I told you. I don’t forget them.’
‘Why should that be of value to this department?’
‘You know as well as I do that we’re concerned with identifying and, with any luck, eventually catching, anyone involved in the illegal traffic of young women for the purposes of sex.’
‘And your own experience as a sex worker would make you an expert on this?’ Deborah asked. ‘You see, this experience is very unclear in your file. Almost so unclear as to be non-existent.’
Zelda looked at Deborah. She was enjoying this, she thought. Enjoying humiliating her. Or trying to. She sighed. ‘I have never been a “sex worker”, and I resent your use of the term. “Sex worker” implies I was a willing participant. I wasn’t. Not ever. As you said, I have a “personal acquaintance with the area under investigation”. That’s because it happened to me. It is not something I like to broadcast, but I was abducted at the age of seventeen and spent the next ten years either on my back or on my knees servicing clients. That’s when I wasn’t being beaten, tortured or raped. And if either of you believe that I might possibly be working on the side of the bastards who did those things to me, then you’re more fucking stupid than I think you are.’ Zelda noticed Deborah redden and felt a little jolt of pleasure at her reaction to the outburst.
Danvers coughed, put his pen down again and glanced sideways at Deborah. ‘Well, I think that’s just about all for now. Unless you have any more questions, Deborah?’
Deborah shook her head and scribbled something on her notepad before smoothing her skirt. She avoided looking at Zelda.
Danvers stood up and gave a slightly mocking bow. ‘Then we’ll trouble you no more, Ms Melnic.’
‘What now? What about work? The office?’
‘Naturally, a replacement will be found for Mr Hawkins, perhaps on a temporary basis at first. But certainly for the next few days the office will be closed, and the work of the department suspended until we conclude our investigation.’
‘So I can go home?’
Danvers frowned. ‘We would prefer it if you stayed in London for the time being, Ms Melnic,’ he said. ‘Just until we’ve wrapped up our inquiries, you understand. We may need to talk to you again. You can let Deborah know the name and location of your hotel before you leave. And don’t forget to give her your mobile number, too.’
And that was it. Danvers resumed his seat and turned his attention back to the file folder. Zelda was dismissed. She wondered if they had been quite so thorough with everyone else, or had her past, her origins and her special role singled her out for suspicion?
‘I like your new hairstyle,’ Banks said to DI Joanna MacDonald. ‘Or does that qualify as a #MeToo remark?’
Joanna smiled and touched her shaggy cap of blonde hair self-consciously. ‘Depends,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s more of a Time’s Up sort of thing. Especially as you’re not my boss. But thank you, anyway.’
‘So what brings you all the way from the bright lights of Northallerton to a sleepy little outpost like Eastvale? Your phone message said it was work-related.’
Joanna raised an eyebrow. ‘So what else would it be?’
‘I don’t know. The pleasure of my company?’ Banks liked the contrast between her blonde hair and dark eyebrows, though he knew that it meant highlights. His ex-wife, Sandra, had the same combination, but in her case, it had been a quirk of nature. ‘It’s just that we don’t see you out here very often. Only in those dull meetings back at County HQ.’
‘My job’s not always dull.’
‘The meetings are. Seriously, though, have you never thought of applying for Homicide and Major Crimes? I’m sure you’d be in with a chance. I’d put in a word.’
Joanna laughed, then took a sip of coffee. They
were in the Queen’s Arms on Eastvale market square that Monday evening. The storms had passed, and the weather was mild, the evening imbued with muted spring sunlight casting shadows over the rain-darkened cobblestones. Cyril, the landlord, had even optimistically risked putting some tables outside after the rain. It was a bit too soon for that, Banks thought, as there could easily be another shower, though one or two smokers clearly begged to disagree. Inside was as dead as usual for a Monday evening. Just the regulars who had been there most of the afternoon propping up the bar and chatting up Cyril’s latest barmaid, Louise, a petite Scouse lass with an accent to match. Cyril also had one of his early sixties’ playlists going. At the moment, The Shadows were playing ‘The Frightened City’.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Joanna answered, ‘the thought actually crossed my mind briefly once, when things seemed a bit too quiet.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
‘Well, you already have three women working under your command: DS Jackman, DC Masterson and DI Cabbot. You also have a female boss, Area Commander Gervaise. I just felt you were sort of trapped between women. I didn’t think you were up to handling another. It didn’t seem fair to add to your burdens.’
‘So you let me off the hook? That’s very considerate of you,’ said Banks. ‘And you’re absolutely right. I’m looking for a big, strapping Neanderthal knuckle-dragger to stick by my side when the going gets tough.’
Joanna laughed.
‘Now tell me your real reason,’ Banks said before taking a long refreshing slug of Timothy Taylor’s Landlord.
‘Simple, really. You don’t need another DI. You’ve already got Annie Cabbot. You need another DC. Besides, I’m told my prospects of promotion before too long are pretty good exactly where I am.’
‘Congratulations. I’m glad for you. Really. And I suppose you’re right, we do need a new DC, especially now Doug Wilson’s left us.’ Banks took a sip of beer. ‘So what is it you want to see me about?’
‘You’re investigating the suspicious death of a young Middle Eastern boy, right?’
‘You’re pretty quick off the mark,’ Banks said.
‘Hardly need to be. It was all over the six o’clock news.’
Banks drank some more beer. The Shadows had given way to The Temperance Seven singing ‘Pasadena’. Banks had never liked The Temperance Seven. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The reporters are already pouring off the London trains. Our media liaison officer Adrian Moss is under siege. But it’s only to be expected. Our victim is very young. About twelve or thirteen, we think. And, as you say, Middle Eastern, which is pretty unusual around these parts. Victim of knife crime in a small northern town. Found dead in a wheelie bin in an alley at the back of Malden Terrace, on the East Side Estate, with nothing on him but a small quantity of cocaine in his pocket. Dr Burns said at the scene that the lad was stabbed four times in the chest and abdomen. There are no defensive wounds. It doesn’t resemble a fight gone wrong or anything like that. We don’t even know the victim’s identity yet. We’ve got a computer-generated likeness, based on a photograph, out all over the place: newspapers, TV, government agencies, asylum seekers’ hostels, Islamic groups, immigrant communities and organisations. But we don’t even know that he was an immigrant or asylum seeker. Or a Muslim. And perhaps he was born here. Anyway, why are you interested? Can you help us?’
‘I don’t know. Not with the identification, but maybe with other things.’
‘More coffee? Something stronger?’
Joanna held on to her cup. ‘No. Nothing for me, thanks. I’m fine. Have you ever heard of a man called Blaydon? Connor Clive Blaydon.’
‘Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t think from where. Just a minute – wasn’t he a mate of The Farmer’s?’
‘The Farmer?’
‘George Fanthorpe. “Farmer Fanthorpe.” A bit before your time, perhaps. Nasty piece of work. On the surface he was a wealthy country squire – owned and trained racehorses; kept a few sheep, rare-breed pigs and cows; operated a factory that made posh cheese for tourists.’
‘And underneath the rustic veneer?’
‘Drugs, guns, prostitution, murder.’
‘Sounds like him and Blaydon would make perfect bedfellows. Where is your Farmer these days?’
‘Inside,’ said Banks. ‘One of my success stories.’
‘Well, on the surface of it, Blaydon’s a property developer. A dodgy property developer.’
‘Is there any other kind?’
‘Yes, well, Mr Blaydon has certainly earned the title. Some of his fixer-uppers make Rachman’s look like the Ritz.’
‘Rachman? I would have thought he was well before your time.’ Peter Rachman was a famous slum landlord of 1960s London, mostly the Notting Hill area. His empire consisted of over a hundred mansion blocks, which he subdivided into flats the size of cupboards and filled with recent immigrants, who were unlikely to complain about the living conditions in the days when signs such as NO BLACKS OR IRISH NEED APPLY were stuck in so many rental property windows.
‘I did History at uni. Contemporary social history is a hobby of mine. The whole twentieth century, really, but more specifically post-World War Two up to . . . well, the present day, I suppose. Besides, the name came up in my research. That’s why they call us Criminal Intelligence, you know.’
Banks smiled. ‘I always thought there was another reason altogether. Anyway, this Blaydon is what? A Rachman figure?’
‘Sort of. On a larger scale. He started out small but now he’s nationwide. North, south, east and west. Worth millions. He buys up old properties – houses, offices, pubs, even hotels and clubs, you name it – does them up on the cheap and sells them for a huge profit, or if location is the main draw, he clears the site and gets a builder to slap up a few cheap prefabs. He’s also in the buy-to-rent market. Says he’s creating affordable housing, of course, so the council and the government just look the other way. It has also been whispered that one or two members of said councils haven’t been shy of taking a bob or two from him. And if they can’t be bought they can usually be blackmailed or bullied. Same result for Blaydon, however he gets it. Carte blanche. Loads of money.’
‘But that’s what property developers and councillors do, isn’t it? Flaunt the rules.’
‘Cynic.’
‘Why would he take such risks committing real crimes when he’s already made more than most of us would earn in a lifetime from his development business?’
‘He’s already in the kind of business that attracts the adventurer type. You know, always on the go with some scheme or other, uninterested in the feelings of others, lacks empathy, needs excitement to thrive. Elements of the classic psychopathic personality. I think he may also be motivated by greed, a sense of entitlement and invulnerability, maybe a feeling of being above or beyond the law. And perhaps the risk-taking appeals, too. He’s also a gambler, a high roller. Likes to think of himself as a major player. In with the big boys. Who knows? When it comes to the alpha male in full flight . . . well, all bets are off.’
‘You’ve certainly been hitting the psychology textbooks, haven’t you?’
‘Are you going to take this seriously?’
‘I am taking it seriously.’
‘Sure.’ Joanna glared at him for a moment.
‘Tell me why the recent interest in this Blaydon? There must be more to it than dodgy property developments.’
‘Very perceptive. If you listen, you might find out. Have you heard about that new development at the bottom of the hill, across Cardigan Drive from the Elmet Estate, on what they used to call the Hollyfield Estate?’
‘The Elmet Centre? Yes, I have.’ The pre-war Hollyfield Estate had been in decline for years and was finally due for demolition as soon as all its inhabitants had been rehoused. The plan was to use the cleared land, along with an area of the fields to the west, to build more social housing and a new shopping centre and multiplex cinema complex. So far, it was still at the planning stage, but the
rehousing had already begun. Slowly.
‘That’s Blaydon,’ said Joanna. ‘Along with a couple of local lads known as the Kerrigan brothers.’
‘Tommy and Timmy? We’re well enough acquainted with them, but we haven’t been able to prove anything yet.’
‘We know. Anyway, we’ve been keeping a watching brief on Blaydon, and last night ANPR caught his Merc coming into Eastvale at twenty-five past seven and heading out in a southerly direction at around quarter past eleven.’
‘OK. The old lady whose bin we found the body in says she thought she heard someone messing with her bin between eleven and half past, along with a car starting up. Two other neighbours think they heard the same, but we haven’t been able to pin down the time yet. I suppose if it were closer to eleven, it might fit with your ANPR timing. But what’s a dead boy got to do with a dodgy property developer?’
‘Maybe nothing, but bear with me. Nobody saw anything?’
‘Of course not. This is the East Side Estate we’re talking about. Surely you don’t think someone like Blaydon—’
‘Shoved in the blade? No. I doubt it very much. Like most people in his position, he keeps the nasty stuff at arm’s length, uses his minions. But we don’t know who was with him in the car. One thing we have discovered is that he surrounds himself with a number of disreputable characters, ex-cons or ex-special forces, even ex-coppers. Tough guys. Mercenaries. Enforcers. And he’s lost his driving licence, so he never goes anywhere without Frankie Wallace, his chauffeur. And Wallace is an ex-bruiser, trained in the Glasgow gangs. Surely this Farmer of yours had people to do his dirty work for him?’
Banks thought of Ciaran French and Darren Brody, two of The Farmer’s enforcers, who had ultimately contributed towards his downfall. ‘Yes. But you don’t even know that Blaydon himself was in the car,’ he said. ‘All automatic number plate recognition can tell us is that a car with his number plate passed the cameras at a certain time.’
‘I know that,’ said Joanna.
‘Then . . .?’
‘I didn’t say I had a case or anything, did I? It’s just that we’ve been gathering information on Blaydon over at Criminal Intelligence for quite some time now, and while we have no evidence we could use in court, we’re convinced that he’s involved in a number of criminal activities. Maybe he’s up to something in Eastvale?’