Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘More criminal than property development?’
‘As an adjunct. A cover, if you like. We’ve got him connected with a dodgy accountant and a High Street lawyer suspected of money laundering.’
‘What? Here in Eastvale?’
‘Don’t get your underpants in a knot, Alan. It’s all just been flagged. There’s no action required as yet. These things take time and careful planning if we’re to build a workable case. They’re clever, sneaky customers we’re dealing with here, not your typical smash and grab merchants.’
‘Why weren’t Homicide and Major Crimes informed?’
‘Like I said, it’s a fresh flag. It’ll probably be in your next county memo, if you bother to read those. The point is, we’ve got links, however tenuous, between Blaydon and these two. Not to mention the Kerrigans. It’s what we do in Criminal Intelligence.’
‘So what are they up to, in addition to planning mega projects?’
‘A few things. As you probably know, sterling’s pretty low at the moment and the bottom’s falling out of the housing market.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Well, it creates an ideal opportunity for foreign buyers. High-end properties, especially. In the millions. Mostly London and the stockbroker belt, of course, but also places like Harrogate, some posher suburbs of Leeds. York. So on.’
‘It still doesn’t sound illegal.’
‘We think some of the buyers are using it as an opportunity for money laundering and that Blaydon is facilitating it for them.’
‘The new development, too?’
‘Hard to do without some foreign investment.’
‘Go on.’
‘We’ve also got pictures of him meeting with various people in various places. A few of the ones we’ve been able to identify so far are men connected with criminal enterprises, mostly originating in Albania and some of the other Balkan states.’
‘What enterprises would these be?’
‘Mostly drugs and guns. Possibly sex trafficking.’
Banks thought of Zelda. ‘I know someone who might be able to help you with any pictures you haven’t identified yet. She knows the sex traffic world inside out, and she’s a super-recogniser.’
‘I’ve heard of them. Never forget a face. How terrible to have to carry all that around with you. Everyone you’ve ever seen.’
‘Even the ugly ones,’ said Banks. ‘The point is, she could help you. She works with the NCA in London on a part-time basis, but she lives up Lyndgarth way.’
‘Fine. Fix something up. We’d be glad of the help. Facial recognition software can only get us so far. Anyway, to continue, we’re also convinced that Blaydon has access to inside information – not just politicians, but police, too – but we don’t know exactly who on the inside is on his payroll.’
‘But you know someone is?’
‘We’re pretty sure. He has an uncanny way of knowing when to lie low.’
‘That’s why you’re here, then, rather than me being over at County HQ?’
‘Partly. I wanted to meet somewhere more neutral.’
‘Someone at HQ you don’t trust?’
‘No one specifically. I just thought it made more sense to come over here and talk to you. There was the boy, too. It’s your case. I’m not saying these things are connected, but we’ve no idea yet what Blaydon might have been doing here last night, or who he might have had with him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘We haven’t talked to him yet. I thought maybe you . . .’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Big old manor house between Harrogate and Ripon. Tuscan-villa style. Fountains, statues, maze, the lot. Handy for the A1, but not so close that the noise disturbs his peace. Surrounded by woods and walls. Tranquil. The business offices are in Leeds, but Blaydon mostly works from home.’
‘What’s the rest of his history?’
‘The short version?’
‘That’ll do for now.’
‘He’s sixty-one years old. Started in the property business as a young lad working for an estate agent called Norman Peel, who showed him the ropes. They made a fortune throughout the eighties on Thatcher’s right-to-buy scheme, buying up council houses from the tenants who’d been living in them long enough to buy legally, offering an attractive profit margin. Then Blaydon and Peel tarted them up a bit and resold them, sometimes for a massive profit. Including some on your very own East Side Estate, as well as Hollyfield, I understand. After that, they moved on to other kinds of properties and other kinds of money-making.’
‘Criminal?’
‘Not at first. Not as far as we can make out. Of course, it’s often a thin line in his business. Blaydon eventually made enough money to buy a holiday home in Corfu shortly after the millennium, when such places were still affordable.’
‘That wasn’t long after the Balkan wars,’ Banks said. ‘What happened next?’
‘A few years later, Norman Peel died. Boating accident, apparently. They were business partners by then, and Blaydon took over the reins.’
‘Foul play?’
‘Oh, definitely suspected. Peel was far too honest and straight to fit in with Blaydon’s plans. It happened off Corfu, while Peel was a guest at Blaydon’s holiday home, and nobody could prove it was anything other than a tragic accident.’
‘So what criminal activities do you think he’s involved in these days?’
‘Some of it involves the development side. Big time. Company’s called Unicorn Investments International. Rather a fanciful sort of name for it, I’d say. He’s involved in shopping centres, housing estates like the Elmet Centre project – you name it. It’s a form of insider trading, but he seems to know when to snap up properties pretty cheaply, and suddenly their value is enhanced when a development is announced.’
‘One of his developments?’
‘Usually. But he sometimes works through others, stays at least at one remove. That’s where the Kerrigans come in. As you probably know, they’re club owners, not natural property developers, but they’re quite happy to front some of Blaydon’s more dodgy enterprises for a reasonable return.’
Timmy and Tommy Kerrigan were, on paper at least, owners of the old Bar None nightclub, now renamed The Vaults, just across the market square from where Banks and Joanna were sitting, along with an amusement arcade, also on the square. They were crooks and thugs, suspected of involvement in drug dealing and prostitution, but Banks and his team had never been able to find enough evidence to charge them with anything. Timmy was suspected of an unhealthy interest in teenage girls, whereas Tommy was gay and preferred young boys. Tommy also had a sadistic streak and a nasty temper, ready to explode into violence at a moment’s notice. Their temperamental similarity to the Kray twins had been remarked on more than once, to the extent that in some quarters they were referred to as Reggie and Ronnie, though never to their faces.
‘Blaydon uses them as middlemen on some deals. Glorified gofers on others. And as you no doubt know, they don’t mind getting their hands dirty.’
‘What else is Blaydon up to?’
‘Drugs, for starters. But he’s not a dealer. He doesn’t buy or sell them; he merely facilitates their redistribution. People use his properties for sale and storage. But even that’s not enough for him.’
‘Where does the sex trafficking come in?’
‘Again, it’s not something he’s personally involved in. At least we don’t think so. He keeps his distance. But he’s connected with pop-up brothels. When you think about it, Blaydon’s profession is ideal for that. All those properties standing vacant. Why not make a bit of money out of them? There was a place recently, one of Blaydon’s, an empty low-rise apartment building in Scarborough. Seaview Court. Some of the people who lived nearby reported hearing people yelling and seeing blokes hanging around at all hours, used condoms in the street and so on. It wasn’t a big deal, so the local constabulary didn’t rush to act, and by the time they did get around
to checking it out, they’d closed shop and moved on. Like I said, he always manages to stay one step ahead of the law. Needless to say, he denied all knowledge.’
‘There’s another thing about these pop-up brothels,’ Banks said. ‘They often rely on trafficked girls, or boys, which means a network of far-reaching and often very nasty connections. As far as the drugs are concerned, Corfu isn’t far from Albania, if my geography serves me well. He could have made contacts with criminal gangs over there. I understand that the Albanian Mafia are running most of the cocaine trade over here these days. I don’t believe sex trafficking and pop-up brothels are beyond their reach, either.’ Banks again thought of Zelda, her history as a trafficked girl and her work in helping put names to the faces of trafficking suspects. She had given him some useful information a while ago about an old adversary – one who got away – called Phil Keane, turning up in London again. But no one had been able to find any trace of him since, and Zelda had had to lie low at work.
‘I have to admit,’ Joanna said, ‘that most of what we’ve got on Blaydon looks like guilt by association so far. But some of his visitors at home, or people he meets in Leeds city bars and restaurants, office towers, or down in London – ones we’ve been able to monitor – are very dodgy indeed. He may well be expanding his so-called business interests. There’s an Albanian living in London called Leka Gashi we know is involved with the Shqiptare, the Albanian Mafia. And he’s in bed with a major drug kingpin, also in London. Taking over, some would say. On the other hand, one thing they say about the Albanian crooks is that they’ll try and get their feet under the table by treaties and cooperation. They prefer to make friends first.’
‘And then?’
Joanna drew a finger across her throat. ‘If that doesn’t work, they’re known to be extremely violent. The problem is, no one will talk, and none of the police agencies involved can get enough evidence to bring Blaydon in. Like I said, he’s always one step ahead. He has men to put frighteners on potential whistle-blowers – or the Albanians do – and people on the inside to steer any dangerous investigations away from him. Occasionally, they’ll net a few small fish, but the big ones keep on swimming ahead.’
Banks thought it all over for a few moments, then said, ‘OK. So we’ve got a dead boy on the East Side Estate around the same time as Connor Clive Blaydon’s Merc was spotted in the area. Blaydon’s a known gangster with some very nasty local and international drugs connections. What are your thoughts? That the dead youth was working for him, or against him? On the take? Something like that?’
Joanna shrugged. ‘It’s possible. Drugs make sense as far as the victim is concerned. You mentioned earlier that the boy had a small amount of cocaine in his pocket. County lines, maybe? We know they recruit young kids to run drugs, especially crack and heroin, from urban centres to places like Eastvale. And the East Side Estate is just the sort of place they’d set up a trap house to sell from. Maybe the Albanians are taking over the county lines? This murder sounds like the kind of thing they would do if the boy crossed them or held out on them, or stole. Dump the poor kid’s body in a rubbish bin. Sends a message.’
‘Loud and clear.’ Banks knew that county lines were the scourge of small-time local dealers, who were being cut out by the new business model. Instead of meeting your local supplier down at the pub and scoring, you had a young lad sent up from the city and installed in a house, taking orders by a dedicated phone set up for that very purpose – a county line. County lines had fast become the Amazon Prime of drug supply, ousting any number of smaller, independent retailers.
‘We’ve had men canvassing the estate all day,’ Banks went on, ‘and nobody yet has admitted to ever seeing the lad at all before, never mind on the night he was killed. Of course, we wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were lying, but not all. You said earlier that Blaydon had owned property on the East Side Estate, places he bought from right-to-buy tenants back in Thatcher’s day. Does he still have any?’
‘I’d have to check, but he’s probably sold them all by now. He’s not in the rental business. It’s ironic, isn’t it, how most of the homes have ended up being owned by landlords who bought them for about seventy per cent less than their market value and rent them out for more than the council ever did. Talk about a plan backfiring. Anyway, I’d assume that whoever killed the boy probably took his body there by car and dumped it. Right? The killing itself might have happened in one of the surrounding villages, or another part of town.’
‘A good assumption,’ said Banks. ‘We still need to know how long elapsed between the killing and the dumping, and it might not be easy for the pathologist to figure out. We won’t know until the post-mortem, at any rate – if then – unless we find out by some other means. But it doesn’t help us a lot at the moment to know he might have been killed elsewhere. We’re already extending inquiries out from the estate to the rest of town. Nobody so far recalls seeing any cars around the time he was dumped, only maybe hearing something. We’ll keep at it, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone.’ Banks paused. ‘I’m having another pint. Why don’t you join me?’
Joanna glanced at her watch. ‘Better not. I should get home for dinner. Will you look into it, though? What we’ve been talking about, a possible connection with your murder? Will you talk to Blaydon?’
‘Of course. Is someone waiting for you at home?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t—’
‘No, no. It’s just me. I didn’t mean to snap.’ Joanna stood up to put on her tailored jacket, suddenly flustered, blushing. ‘I . . . I just . . . As a matter of fact, there isn’t anyone. It’s only me and a Tesco pizza. But I didn’t come here to—’
‘Then, if you’ve no objection, I’ll skip the extra pint, you skip the pizza, and we’ll have a curry just around the corner.’
Joanna studied him through narrowed eyes. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he thought she was every bit as attractive and elegant as he had found her when they had first worked together almost seven years ago: tall and slender, a smattering of freckles across her small nose, a generous mouth, watchful green eyes, finishing school posture and stylish dress sense. A Hitchcock blonde, perhaps: Kim Novak in Vertigo or Tippi Hedren in The Birds.
Finally, Joanna grabbed the back of the chair with both hands and leaned forward. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I accept. But we’re going Dutch. That clear?’
Banks stood to leave. ‘As crystal,’ he said. ‘A Dutch curry. Fine with me.’
Chapter 3
When Banks got to his office the following morning, he found a message from Area Commander Gervaise asking him to report to her as soon as possible. He climbed the extra flight of stairs to the top floor and knocked on her door. She called for him to enter, and he wasn’t surprised to see Assistant Chief Constable Ron McLaughlin already ensconced in a chair, coffee in hand.
‘Alan,’ said Gervaise when he had joined them. ‘I’m not going to ask you if there are any developments yet because I know there aren’t.’
‘Not entirely true,’ said Banks. ‘I had a drink with DI Joanna MacDonald from Criminal Intelligence last night, and she pointed us towards a villain named Connor Clive Blaydon.’
ACC McLaughlin frowned. ‘Blaydon?’
‘You know him, sir?’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said McLaughlin, ‘but I know of him. He’s some sort of property magnate, as I understand it.’
‘Plays golf with the chief constable?’
AC Gervaise raised an admonishing finger. ‘Now, now, Alan.’
‘The chief constable doesn’t play golf,’ said McLaughlin, a ghost of a smile on his face. ‘She’s strictly a squash and bridge woman.’
‘Sorry,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, he’s one of the main players in that new Elmet Centre redevelopment.’
‘So what’s the murder of a young boy got to do with him?’ Gervaise asked.
‘That I don’t kno
w,’ said Banks. He gave McLaughlin a quick glance. ‘Maybe nothing. Only DI MacDonald says they’ve been keeping an eye on Blaydon and discovered he’s been meeting with one or two unsavoury characters. One’s an Albanian called Leka Gashi, known to be heavily involved in the drugs trade. He’s also linked to the Albanian Mafia, the Shqiptare.’
‘My, my, Blaydon does get around,’ said Gervaise. ‘How is this man linked to the murder?’
‘We don’t know that he is yet, ma’am, but his car was spotted leaving Eastvale last night, just after the time we think the boy’s body was dumped. And the boy was carrying a small amount of cocaine.’
‘You know this for certain?’ said McLaughlin. ‘About the car?’
‘According to Criminal Intelligence and ANPR surveillance,’ said Banks. ‘There’s nothing specific against Blaydon, except one of his properties was recently used as a pop-up brothel in Scarborough. Unbeknownst to him, or so he says. There could also be this Albanian connection. But it’s all speculative right now. We can’t even prove Blaydon was in the car that night, but I’ll be having a chat with him later today as a matter of course.’
‘Tread carefully,’ said Gervaise.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Banks, ‘I’m not going to go accusing him of anything.’
‘Watch out that you don’t.’ Gervaise put her coffee mug down. ‘Golf or not, he’s not without influence. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about handling the East Side case. I suppose you know it’s already high profile?’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘I’ve got a morning meeting planned with my team.’
‘I’ll organise a press conference for noon,’ said Gervaise. ‘Make sure you brief me fully before then. I’ll be having a meeting with Adrian first.’
Banks nodded. Adrian Moss was a bit of a drip as far as he was concerned, but he did the useful and thankless job of media liaison officer, placing himself as a kind of buffer between the police and the media, translating the needs of one into something acceptable for the other. ‘Any chance of more officers?’ Banks asked. ‘We could do with a lot more help on the house-to-house inquiries, and I need to set up a murder room.’