Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/peter-robinson/page,8,502964-many_rivers_to_cross_the_26th_dci_banks_mystery.html
‘We already know a bit about how you made your way up in the world,’ said Banks. ‘But that’s not what we’re interested in.’
‘I’m still trying to work out what you are interested in. Is this a fishing expedition of some kind? If so, should I have my solicitor present?’
‘What might we be fishing for?’ Annie asked.
‘Don’t ask me.’
Banks took out Peter Darby’s photographic rendering of the victim from his briefcase and showed it to Blaydon. ‘Ever seen this lad?’
Blaydon squinted at the photo and turned back to Banks. ‘No, I can’t say as I have. Arab kid, is he?’
‘We don’t know where he’s from.’ Banks put the photo away. ‘Do you know a man called George Fanthorpe?’ he asked. ‘Farmer Fanthorpe?’
‘Yes,’ Blaydon said after a slight hesitation. ‘We did business occasionally. But it was some time ago. I heard he was sent to prison.’
‘That’s right. He’ll be away for a while. What sort of business did you do?’
‘Nothing criminal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had some projects he was interested in investing in. I bought shares in a couple of racehorses he trained. That sort of thing.’
‘Pretty pally, were you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. It was a business relationship. Maybe the occasional drink. Besides, what does George Fanthorpe have to do with anything?’
‘The Farmer had his dirty little fingers in all kinds of pies,’ Banks went on. ‘I should know. I was the one who put him away. I was just wondering where your interests coincided.’
‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ said Blaydon, pushing his chair back from the desk.
Banks sipped some coffee. It was rich and strong. ‘Just a few more questions, sir, then we’ll get out of your hair.’
Blaydon stayed put. ‘Well, hurry up about it, then.’ He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, Banks noticed. ‘Five more minutes and I’m calling my solicitor.’
‘Of course. What do you know about pop-up brothels?’
Blaydon laughed. ‘About what?’
‘Pop-up brothels. I don’t see what’s so funny.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Blaydon. ‘I just had this image of opening a book and having a cartoon tenement building pop up with ladies of the night in garter belts and frilly underwear waving from the windows.’
‘Own many tenements, do you?’ Annie asked.
‘Oh, come on. It was a joke. Anyway, what’s a pop-up brothel?’
‘Exactly what it sounds like,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a brothel that pops up in a vacant house or building for a limited period of time. The people who operate them use online escort agencies and social media to get the word out to those in the know. They can be quite sophisticated.’
‘Well, I never. It takes all sorts.’
‘I think you’ll agree,’ Annie said, ‘that a man in your business is in a pretty good position to profit from something like that. All those empty properties just sitting there.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I—’
‘Stop playing games,’ said Banks. ‘Ever heard of a man called Leka Gashi?’
‘I can’t say as I have.’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work. An Albanian gangster known to be involved in the drug trade.’
‘What makes you think I would know someone like that?’
‘It’s our business to know these things,’ said Banks.
‘Have you been watching me?’
‘What about that apartment building in Scarborough?’
‘What building?’
‘Seaview Court, or whatever it was called.’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re trying to tell me that Seaview Court is a pop-up brothel?’
‘Was,’ said Banks.
‘Do you have any proof of that?’
‘You know quite well that we don’t. Someone must have tipped you off.’
Blaydon spread his hands. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t micromanage every property on my books. There are far too many for that. Are we finished here?’
Banks glanced at Annie and they both stood up. Before they left, Banks leaned forward and rested his palms on Blaydon’s desk. ‘One thing you might bear in mind,’ he said, ‘is that pop-up brothels quite often involve girls trafficked from Eastern Europe and elsewhere, mostly against their will. They also bring you into contact with people like Gashi, who can be very dangerous and unpredictable when the chips are down. Their warnings if you step out of line tend to be very swift and very final.’
‘You’re telling me this, why?’
‘I’m telling because you might think you’re a very clever man and a big player in their game, but in reality you’re not. You’re not a match for these people, and you could get yourself very badly hurt, or even killed, if you continue playing at their table. To put it simply, they eat people like you for breakfast.’
Blaydon stood. He wasn’t very tall, Banks noticed, and quite slight in build, but he possessed a kind of wired, nervous energy. ‘Thank you for your concern, Superintendent,’ he said, then bowed towards Annie. ‘And DI Cabbot, too, of course. I will certainly bear what you said in mind should I find myself approached by any of the people you mention.’
‘You do that, Mr Blaydon,’ said Banks. ‘And there’s no need to bother Jeeves. We’ll find our own way out.’
The pub was separated from the houses on both sides by narrow alleys that led through to the next street, and it stood a short distance back from the pavement. There were a few benches and wooden tables with umbrellas out front, for those who wished to enjoy their drinks and have a smoke in the sunlight. By the doors, a blackboard listed the specials of the day. The sagging roof and weathered beams that framed the whitewashed facade showed the pub’s age, and colourful hanging baskets and window-boxes gave it a welcoming atmosphere. As it happened, the inside was just as pleasant, with its light pine tables, brass and polished surfaces.
The young barman smiled as Zelda approached the bar and picked up a menu. She asked him for a small glass of Pinot Grigio while she studied it. By the time he delivered her drink, she had decided on the grilled sole and Greek salad. By the way he blushed when he handed her the drink, Zelda could tell he was in love with her already. Well, perhaps not love. She waited at the bar and sipped her wine while he passed her order on to the kitchen. He seemed surprised to see her still standing there when he returned and asked where she wanted to sit. There were plenty of empty tables, and she pointed to one behind her, in his direct view.
‘I notice there’s been a fire,’ she said, gesturing over her shoulder. ‘Just up the street there.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Terrible business. Poor fellow died.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew him, but he came in here often enough to be called a regular.’ He pointed to a small corner table. ‘That’s where he used to sit. Mr Hawkins. Terrible business.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nobody knows. Rumour has it there was a chip-pan fire, but . . .’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know him well, but I can’t see it.’
‘He didn’t like chips?’
The barman laughed. ‘It’s not that, though I can’t say he ever ordered any. No. He just wasn’t much of a drinker.’
‘How could you tell that?’
‘You get to recognise the signs when you do a job like mine. He’d come in now and then, usually after work, I suppose, sip his half pint of Pride and work on his crossword, then he’d be off. Just a bit of quiet time between the office and home. Most serious drinkers would down three or four double whiskies in the time it took him to do that.’
‘How do you know he didn’t go home and knock back a bottle of whisky?’
‘Well, like I said, I don’t, really. It’s just . . .’ He shrugged. ‘He didn’t seem the type. That’s all.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, why are you interested? Are you a reporter or
something?’
‘Me? No, nothing like that.’
‘Police?’
‘Do I look like police?’
‘Not like any I’ve ever seen.’ He blushed. ‘I mean . . . you know . . . they’re usually big burly blokes. I know there are women police, too, but . . .’
Zelda touched his arm briefly and smiled. ‘I know what you mean. And thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For saying I don’t look like a big burly bloke.’
‘Oh. Yes. I mean, no. But you haven’t answered my question. Why are you interested?’
Zelda didn’t really have an answer; she hadn’t planned that far. When all else fails, deflect. ‘Have the police been around here asking about him?’
His Adam’s apple was large and moved as he swallowed. ‘Yesterday. Two of them.’
‘What did they want to know?’
‘Whatever I could tell them. Which wasn’t much. It did seem odd.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the way they were speaking, as if they didn’t think it was an accident.’
‘Did they say that?’
‘Not in so many words, no. But . . .’
‘You get to recognise the signs?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘You’re a very perceptive young man.’
Someone called from the kitchen.
‘I have to go,’ the barman said. ‘Please sit down. I’ll bring your lunch to your table when it’s ready. Another drink?’
Zelda saw that she had almost finished her glass. ‘Why not,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
She went to sit at the table she had pointed out and took out the photograph of Keane she had copied from the file some time ago. When the barman eventually came over with her food and drink, she slid the picture towards him. ‘Actually, this is who I’m looking for,’ she said. ‘Have you ever seen him?’
The barman studied the photograph. ‘That’s odd,’ he said.
‘What is?’
‘This bloke. As a matter of fact, I have seen him. He was in here. With Mr Hawkins. It’s funny because it’s the only time I’ve seen him here with anyone else. I always thought he was a bit of a loner.’
‘When was this?’
‘Couple of weeks ago. Not much longer. Is it important? You really are police, aren’t you? Or something like that.’
Zelda gave him her best enigmatic smile. ‘Something like that. I’m afraid I can’t tell you,’ she said.
‘Or you’d have to kill me?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Well, I don’t want to die, thanks very much.’
‘Did you tell the police about him?’
‘No. Nothing to tell. I never thought twice about it until you showed me the photo just now. And they didn’t ask.’
‘Is that the only time you’ve seen him?’
‘Yes. Just the once. He’s not from around here. Or if he is, he’s not much of a pub-goer.’
‘Was he by himself or with a woman?’
‘By himself.’
‘How long did they spend together?’
‘Not long. Twenty minutes or so.’
‘Who got here first?’
‘Mr Hawkins was already here when the other man came in and joined him.’
‘Did it seem as if they’d arranged to meet?’
‘Now you mention it, yes. It did. At least, when the man came in, he stood for a moment and scanned the room, like you do when you’re looking for someone. Then he went over and sat down with Mr Hawkins.’
‘How did they seem?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Were they arguing or anything?’
‘No. Just talking. Like normal.’
‘Did they leave together?’
‘No. The other bloke left first.’
‘How did Mr Hawkins seem then? Was he agitated or anything?’
‘No. Just normal. He went back to working on his crossword.’ A group of four people came in, chatting and laughing. ‘Oops. Got to go,’ the barman said. ‘Customers to serve. It’s been nice talking to you, Miss . . .?’
‘Cathy,’ said Zelda. ‘You can call me Cathy.’
‘Cathy, then. Maybe you’ll come back and see us again?’
Zelda smiled. ‘Maybe I will.’
When he left she picked at her sole and salad. The fish was cold, but she didn’t mind. It had been worth it. She took out her notebook and tried to jot down what she had learned:
1. The police are investigating Hawkins’s death further, which could mean that they don’t believe it was an accident.
2. Hawkins met with Keane openly in his local two weeks before his death. Perhaps this indicated they felt they had nothing to hide in being seen together? Whatever it meant, they had needed to meet face to face for some reason.
3. Keane drugged Alan Banks and set his house on fire. Hawkins died in a house fire. Is there a connection?
4. Keane is most likely still living in London somewhere.
But how to find him? That was what Zelda didn’t know. She didn’t even know whether he was using his real name. Didn’t even know whether Keane was his real name. Perhaps it would be easier to find Petar Tadić first, rather than using Keane to get to him. And after all, it was Tadić she wanted. And his brother. Keane for her was only a means to an end, perhaps one she didn’t need.
With Hawkins dead and the department’s work suspended, though, the resources of her job were out of reach. On the other hand, she had a freer hand now she didn’t have to worry about Hawkins finding out she was asking questions. She wouldn’t have been able to come here today, for example, and discover that he had met with Keane again, if she had had to worry about him somehow finding out about it. True, Danvers and Deborah were nosing around, but Zelda didn’t think they reported to the enemy. It was one thing to be questioned by the NCA and quite another to be chopped up into little pieces and fed to the fish.
If she could find out where Petar Tadić hung out, then follow him, perhaps he would eventually lead her to his brother Goran. He was the one she wanted most, the one she had bitten, the one who had punched her in the face and had later come to visit her in the breaking house outside Vršac, just over the Serbian border, cracking his knuckles and grinning as he entered her tiny room to wreak his revenge on her helpless body. She wouldn’t be so helpless the next time they met. But London was a big city, and she didn’t know where to start.
She caught the barman looking at her and gave him another smile. He blushed and pretended to be washing glasses. Zelda polished off the rest of her wine, slung her bag across her shoulder and paid the still-blushing young man before leaving. It had been a long time since she had used her charms to get something she wanted from a man, and she was encouraged to find out that they still worked.
There was one other question she hadn’t put down in her notes, perhaps because she was afraid of the answer. But in the interests of thoroughness, she made a mental note to add it to her list:
5. If Hawkins did blow the whistle on me last December, why hasn’t the gang come after me yet?
Sean and Luke were certain the house was empty, they told the police later, or they wouldn’t have gone in there in the first place. Everyone knew the old Hollyfield Estate was on the verge of demolition to make way for new affordable housing and a shopping centre, and that many of its residents had already left for pastures new. Number twenty-six had looked like one of the empty houses left behind.
The backyard was a treasure trove of broken and discarded objects piled high – old bicycle frames and prams, bald tyres, twisted coat hangers, cracked radios, TVs with broken screens, rusty iron bars, empty tins and plastic containers, and even a very heavy old machine that Sean identified as a typewriter. He’d seen one on a TV costume drama not so long ago. While they had sorted through the accumulated rubbish searching for anything worth keeping, Sean had noticed that the back door of the house was slightly ajar. Sometimes they had to break down boards to get into der
elict houses, but this one seemed to be inviting them across the threshold. Luke was reluctant to go in at first, but Sean called him a yellow-belly and a scaredy-cat, and that stirred him into action, though he stayed well behind Sean.
The first thing they noticed in the gloom of the ruined kitchen was the smell, which Sean later described as rather like their toilet at home when his dad had just been after a curry from the Taj Mahal. It struck Sean as odd that the sink was still piled high with dirty dishes, but then people left all sorts of rubbish behind them when they moved on to better things. And if you had to move, why bother washing all your dishes first? Sometimes squatters came in and took over, but they were parasites, his dad said. Just in case someone was there, he called out, and got nothing but dead air in return. The place was deserted. Abandoned.
It was when they reached the living room that things got really interesting. And scary. It was hard to see anything clearly at first, as the tattered curtains blocked most of the evening light, but when their eyes had adjusted, the boys were able to make out the back of a chair with wheels in the centre of the room. Sean recognised it as a mobility scooter because his Uncle Ollie used one. He said it was due to his gammy legs, but Sean’s mum said it was because he was too fat and lazy to walk anywhere.
Luke hung back and said he thought they should leave, that someone must still live there; surely no one would abandon anything as valuable as a mobility scooter? But Sean said it might be broken, for all they knew, like the stuff in the backyard.
As Luke stayed behind in the kitchen doorway, Sean advanced alone towards the scooter. It wasn’t until he got around the side that he saw it was occupied, and his heart lurched in his chest. All he could see was a slumped figure, head to one side, and two fixed eyes, staring at him. Without a word, he ran, Luke only several paces behind him, and they didn’t stop until they reached the tree-lined safety of their own street just off Elmet Hill.
Chapter 4
By the time Homicide and Major Crimes were called to number twenty-six Hollyfield Lane, the main street of the estate on the north-western edge of Eastvale, the sun was low and cast long shadows on the road. The first officers to respond – PCs John Carver and Sally Helms – had followed procedure, securing the scene and calling for paramedics to verify that the victim was, in fact, dead. It was only upon discovering that the deceased appeared to be, on the say-so of the paramedics, the victim of a drug overdose, that DI Annie Cabbot and DC Gerry Masterson ended up there. As yet, the discovery wasn’t sufficiently major for them to drag Banks away from his evening out in Gateshead. Annie had enough rank to manage the investigation as senior investigating officer for the time being, and she would report to AC Gervaise as soon as she had gathered a few more facts at the scene. Drug overdoses happened now and then, even in more rural areas like Eastvale, and were rarely cause for a major investigation once the basics had been established.