Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to get rid of her in that case?’ said Banks. ‘Surely a fragile old woman is far easier to kill than a fit young lad?’
‘Less likely to merit an investigation, too,’ Annie added. ‘It wouldn’t be hard to make it seem like she had an accident.’
‘I suppose so,’ Gerry said. ‘But I’m only speculating on possibilities. If it’s a warning, it might just be to say to the old lady “be careful or this could happen to you”.’
‘I still don’t get the connection,’ said Banks. ‘A Middle Eastern boy and an elderly woman. And what about the coke?’
‘Maybe it’s not relevant,’ Annie said. ‘Just a small amount for personal use, like a packet of cigarettes or a hip flask. And perhaps the warning wasn’t for Mrs Grunwell specifically, but for someone else on the street. It might have been giving too much away to dump the body in the bin of the person they really wanted to rattle.’
‘It’s possible,’ Banks said. ‘In which case, whoever it was meant for will have got the message. We’ll re-interview all the people from Malden Close and Terrace, see if we can find a chink in someone’s armour. Stefan? Do the CSIs have anything for us yet?’
DS Stefan Nowak, Crime Scene Manager, shook his head and spoke for the first time. ‘We’ve just about finished with the scene. The rain didn’t leave us a lot to go on. No footprints, no tyre tracks, nothing like that. Vic Manson worked his magic with the fingerprints on the bin, but they didn’t match any on the databases we have access to. The only prints on the cocaine packet are the boy’s. The coke’s at the lab. We’re analysing his clothes. They’re pretty generic. The spectrograph might show up something, traces he might have picked up from somewhere.’
‘Right,’ said Banks. ‘Basically, we shouldn’t be wasting our time having meetings. We should get out there and get on with the job. There is just one more thing.’ Banks had another taste of his coffee, grimaced and went on. ‘I had a brief and unscheduled meeting with DI Joanna MacDonald from County HQ yesterday evening,’ he said. He noticed Annie roll her eyes. ‘As a matter of fact, she got in touch with me when she heard about the body. It seems that Criminal Intelligence have their eyes on a property developer called Connor Clive Blaydon, head of Unicorn Investments International, one of the companies behind the new Elmet Centre development. Lives down Harrogate way. Apparently, his car was picked up by ANPR on the way out of Eastvale around a quarter past eleven on Sunday night. As of yet, we have no reason to link him with the murder except the timing and proximity, but DI MacDonald seems to think he’s up to no good wherever he goes, that his interests include drugs and that he might have friends on the inside, so let’s keep this to ourselves.
‘She also raised the spectre of county lines, as did AC Gervaise earlier this morning. It makes a lot of sense when you consider the age of the victim and the drugs link. We’ve known that city dealers have been using kids as young as twelve or thirteen to transport and deal drugs for them in small towns and villages all over the country for some time now, though we haven’t got hold of anyone to confirm it’s happening here yet. Maybe our Mr Blaydon is a middleman in something like that? Maybe he’s just starting up? It seems he likes to play with the big boys. He’s got some sort of a gangster complex. Gerry, I’d like you to do your thing and put together a dossier on him. DI MacDonald said she’d send over her files this morning. I’ll make sure you get them. Have a word with the drugs squad, too. See if any of this rings any bells with them. But be careful what you let slip.’
‘Got it, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘I’m to ask the drugs squad if they know anything about Blaydon dealing drugs without mentioning that I’m asking about Blaydon dealing drugs.’
Banks grinned. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way, Gerry.’
‘Yes, guv. What else is Blaydon into?’
‘Bit of everything, it seems,’ said Banks. ‘Your typical all-round equal opportunity criminal. Dodgy property deals, pop-up brothels—’
‘Pop-up brothels?’ said Gerry. ‘In Eastvale?’
‘Not yet, as far as I know. But stranger things have happened.’
‘I can just see your Mrs Grunwell running one of those,’ Annie said.
Banks smiled at the thought. ‘You may be right at that. There are stranger things than an eighty-five-year-old madam. Perhaps someone can ask her about it when we talk to her again. In the meantime, you’ve all got your tasks to do.’
Zelda had no idea what she would gain from visiting Hawkins’s house – probably nothing – but at least it got her out of the hotel room and gave her something to think about other than her bad dreams and her traumatic past. It was a fine spring day, and hordes of tourists with jackets or sweaters tied around their waists, mixed with the joggers on the wharf, stood with their backs to the river taking selfies with St Paul’s in the background. Zelda had chosen jeans, a black T-shirt and a tan kidskin jacket to wear for her outing, with her shoulder bag strapped across her chest and her black hair tied in a ponytail.
Across the Thames, sunlight reflected on the windows of the traffic jammed up on Victoria Embankment. Just past the Oxo Tower, she had to weave her way through a rowdy group of Italian schoolchildren, whose teachers didn’t seem to be making much of an attempt to keep them disciplined. At Waterloo Bridge, she climbed the steps between the National Theatre and the BFI and turned left towards Waterloo Underground station, where she took the Northern Line.
Zelda had almost as good a memory for directions as she did for faces. She had only visited Hawkins’s house once before, briefly, over a year ago, for a ‘department mixer’, but the minute she got off the tube at Highgate and made her way up the steps to Archway, she knew instinctively to turn left down the main road, then left again into a residential area of semi-detached houses. Some were painted in light pastel colours, but she remembered that Hawkins’s house had kept its basic red-brick facade, with white trim around the bay windows, a porch with two white Doric columns and a postage-stamp lawn behind a low brick wall and trimmed privet hedges. A short flight of steps led up to the front porch. Today, though, it would have stood out on any street. The windows were all gone and the garden was piled with burned sticks of furniture.
The neighbours were lucky, Zelda thought, when she spotted Hawkins’s burned-out house. Though their house appeared to be relatively undamaged, it was also cordoned off, and Zelda imagined the owners had been told to move out until the fire investigators were certain it was safe to return home.
Hawkins’s house was still structurally intact – and the only areas that showed fire damage were around the windows and door – but Zelda knew that the inside would be a mess of charred wood, twisted metal, melted plastic, glass and worse. She remembered the kitchen from her one brief visit. It had seemed very modern and high-tech to her, all brushed steel surfaces and professional cookware, which went hand in hand with the idea of Hawkins as a gourmet. She couldn’t have said for certain, but she didn’t think there had been a chip pan in sight.
What surprised her now was that there was still so much activity around the place. Though the fire engines must have been and gone, a fire inspector’s van was parked outside along with two police patrol cars. One uniformed officer stood on guard under the front porch, and as she passed, Zelda noticed a man in a white coverall walking out carrying a cardboard box, which he placed in the boot of an unmarked car. He paused to talk with another uniformed officer, who was sitting in one of the cars, before going back into the house again. Then a woman came out, also wearing a white coverall and carrying a cardboard box. Did they do this at every domestic fire scene? She could see one or two curtains twitching in the nearby houses.
Zelda didn’t want to be caught dawdling. They might think she was suspicious if they saw her watching them. She also wondered whether they had CCTV nearby, or someone noting down all passers-by who showed an interest. But it was like a car crash; a person could hardly walk by without stopping for a peek at whatever was going on. So she allow
ed herself to stand for a few moments. Perhaps she was getting paranoid, or she had read too many spy novels, but she also kept an eye out for signs of anyone following her. She hadn’t seen anyone, but that didn’t mean no one was there. She was already starting to feel out of her depth in this sleuthing game.
A man came out of one of the houses just in front of her, gave her a quick glance, then crossed the road and went into Hawkins’s house. The policeman at the door seemed to know him. It looked to Zelda as if he had probably been questioning the neighbour across the street, and probably not for the first time, as it was nearly three days since the fire. That indicated to her that they might not be quite satisfied with the chip-pan theory.
Zelda started walking down the street and noticed a pub sign about a hundred yards ahead. She checked her watch and saw it was almost one o’clock. Lunchtime. Why not treat herself to a pub lunch and make a few discreet inquiries while she was there?
If Blaydon’s mansion wasn’t quite as large as Banks had expected, his extensive gardens certainly made up for it. Banks drove through the open wrought-iron gates in a high surrounding wall of dark stone. A gravel drive wound first through woods of ash, hazel, beech and yew trees, which formed a natural tunnel, then through carefully designed and cultivated gardens – a trellised arbour, a wisteria grove or rose garden here, and a gazebo there – leading ultimately past neatly trimmed topiary and imitation Greek and Roman statuary, complete with missing limbs and lichen stains, to a large pond scabbed with water lilies. At its centre stood an elaborate fountain. Water sprayed in all directions from the mouths of cherubim and seraphim with puffy cheeks and curly hair. And was that a maze Banks glimpsed beyond the fountain?
‘Bloody hell,’ said Banks. ‘You’d think he’s had Capability Brown in to come up with this lot.’
Though the grounds resembled those of a Tuscan villa, the house itself was bland. It was certainly large, however – three storeys of limestone and brick, complete with bay windows, gables and a low pitched, slate roof. At the front stood an ostentatious porch supported by stone columns.
‘Shall we knock or ring the bell?’
‘The bell,’ said Annie. ‘I want to hear what tune it plays.’
The bell didn’t play any tune at all; it just made a dull electronic buzz for as long as Banks held the button down. Eventually, a slender middle-aged man in a dark suit and waistcoat opened the door and regarded them with an expression of mixed surprise and distaste. He raised a bushy eyebrow in question.
Banks and Annie pulled out their warrant cards. ‘Mr Blaydon?’ said Banks.
‘Please follow me,’ said the man, turning. ‘Mr Blaydon is in his study. I’ll announce you.’
Banks and Annie exchanged looks, then stood in the large high-ceilinged entrance hall and waited. Banks gazed at the gilt-framed oil paintings hung on the wainscotted walls: a stormy seascape with a listing sailing ship, peasants bent over gathering sheaves at harvest time.
Then the man returned. ‘Mr Blaydon will see you now, sir, madam,’ he said.
Banks and Annie followed him through a door beside the broad staircase and along a narrow corridor lined with framed pencil drawings, mostly nudes. The butler, or whatever he was, knocked on one of the doors and a voice said, ‘Enter.’
The butler opened the door and Banks and Annie entered. A man sat facing them across a large desk, his back to the mullioned windows, which framed a view of the extensive gardens. The desk was scattered with papers, and the rest of the place was similarly untidy. The window was partially open, and Banks could hear birds singing in the garden.
Blaydon stood up, made his way past a couple of piles of paper and shook hands with them both, then went back to his chair. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs,’ he said, then looked around at the mess and smiled. ‘Just dump those files on the floor. I like a bit of disorder. Can’t bear everything in its place. It used to be a bone of contention, I can you tell you. Gabriella – the wife as was – she liked everything just so. For the sake of our marriage, we agreed that this room is sacrosanct, though I can’t say it did any good in the long run.’
‘You’ve separated?’
‘Divorced,’ said Blaydon. ‘A couple of years back.’
‘Kids?’
‘One of each. Hang on just a minute.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and the man who had answered the door reappeared.
‘Tea or coffee?’ Blaydon asked. ‘Or something stronger, perhaps?’
‘Coffee would be fine,’ said Banks.
Annie nodded in agreement.
‘Fine, then,’ said Blaydon, and the man went off.
‘The butler?’ Banks inquired.
‘Who? Jeeves? I suppose so. Though I don’t think they call themselves that any more. And that’s not his real name, of course. Hates it when I call him that. He’s Roberts. He helps out around the place. Better than a wife, and much less trouble. Now what can I do for you? You didn’t tell me anything over the phone.’
Blaydon looked like a retired academic, thought Banks, who had met a few in his time. The casual lemon sweater over an open-neck white shirt, unruly head of brown, grey-flecked hair, aquiline nose, keen, watchful eyes behind wire-framed spectacles. He wasn’t in the least bit imposing; in fact, he seemed perfectly relaxed, as if he might have been sitting there marking a pile of exam papers rather than renting out empty properties to drug dealers or madams of pop-up brothels.
‘Were you in Eastvale on Sunday evening?’ Banks asked.
‘Eastvale? Yes, I was.’
‘Why?’
Blaydon leaned back in his chair. It creaked. ‘Why? Well, as a matter of fact, I was having dinner with some business colleagues.’ He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with anything?’
‘We’re investigating an incident,’ said Annie. ‘We’re questioning anyone who might be able to help us.’
‘I see. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all. I went to the restaurant, dined and left. I saw no incident. What sort of thing are we talking about?’
Banks paused, then said, ‘It was a murder.’
‘Murder? Good Lord. I think I would have remembered something like that.’
Roberts returned with the coffee, silver carafe on a silver tray, with a matching silver milk jug and sugar bowls. Banks took his black and Annie took milk and one sugar. Blaydon declined. When Roberts had gone, they carried on.
‘Which restaurant were you at?’ Banks asked.
‘Marcel’s. Le Coq d’Or. It’s on—’
‘I know where Le Coq d’Or is,’ said Banks. It was tucked away on a narrow side street of twee shops and antiquarian book dealers between Market Street and York Road, at the back of the market square. It was also the most expensive restaurant in Eastvale – in the entire Dales, for that matter – and had been awarded not one, but two Michelin stars. Neither Banks nor Annie had ever eaten there, and probably never would.
‘We often dine there,’ Blaydon went on. ‘His truffle and—’
‘Who were you dining with?’ Annie’s question stopped Blaydon mid-sentence.
‘I told you. Business colleagues.’
‘Can you give me their names?’
‘I don’t want you bothering my friends about such matters. I’ve told you, none of us saw or heard anything unusual. I’m assuming whatever happened was near Marcel’s?’
‘Friends?’ Annie said. ‘I thought you said business colleagues.’
Blaydon gave her a cold stare. ‘Business colleagues. Friends. What does it matter? I don’t want you bothering them.’
‘We promise not to bother them,’ Annie said.
‘And we’ll find out one way or another,’ Banks added.
Blaydon sighed and shot them a poisonous glance. ‘If you must know, it was the Kerrigan brothers. Thomas and Timothy.’
Banks whistled. ‘Tommy and Timmy Kerrigan, eh? Reg and Ronnie. They certainly get around. Fine company you keep.’
‘The Kerrigans are respectable bu
sinessmen. We do a fair bit of business together.’
‘Like the Elmet Centre?’
‘That’s one project we’re involved in, yes.’
‘A pretty big one, too. Did you drive to Eastvale?’
‘Not personally. No licence, you see. Slight difference of opinion with a breathalyser. I had my chauffeur, Frankie, drive me and wait for me out front. Where did this murder take place?’
‘That would be Frankie Wallace?’ Banks said.
‘Yes.’
‘What time did you arrive at the restaurant?’ Annie asked.
‘Seven-thirty, or thereabouts.’
‘And what time did you leave?’
‘Late.’
‘Around eleven?’
‘Around that time, yes.’
‘That’s rather a long time to spend over your frog’s legs and snails, isn’t it? Doesn’t the restaurant close earlier than that? It was a Sunday night, after all.’
‘Marcel is a friend,’ said Blaydon. ‘He’s happy to stay open for his best customers as long as they wish. I mean, it’s hardly your Nando’s or Pizza Express. And you have it quite wrong about the food he serves. There are no snails—’
‘We don’t really care about snails, sir,’ Banks cut in. ‘So you were in Le Coq d’Or having dinner with the Kerrigan brothers, and your driver Frankie Wallace was out front waiting to take you home from half past seven until eleven on Sunday? Right?’
‘That is correct.’
‘And you didn’t leave the restaurant at all during that time?’
‘I didn’t nip out to murder someone, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Who was it, by the way? Who was the victim?’
‘A young lad,’ said Banks. ‘We think he might have been mixed up with drugs.’
‘It’s a terrible thing, these days,’ said Blaydon. ‘One reads so much about the damage drugs can do. I contribute to a number of rehabilitation centres. Try to do my bit, you know. Give something back.’
‘For what?’
‘I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,’ said Blaydon. ‘I made my way up the hard way. Through sheer hard slog. You’re just like all the rest. You slag off entrepreneurs like me, but where would you be without us? Still living in fucking caves, that’s where.’