Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘Is Blaydon a user?’ Banks asked.
‘Not known to be, but word has it he’s not averse to a snort now and then, and he usually keeps a few bowls of happy powder around the place to impress his important friends. Likes to fancy himself a bit of a playboy. More than likely he’s working with the Albanians on financial deals behind the scenes, money laundering through his property developments and so forth, sex trafficking through the pop-up brothels. All at several removes. Of course, he’ll probably be doing them favours here and there. That’s how they work, how they draw people in until they’re so deep they can’t get out.’
‘How’s Blaydon’s business doing?’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Gerry. ‘I’d been wondering myself why someone like him – successful legitimate businessman, multi-millionaire and so on – would get involved in risky criminal enterprises.’
‘DI MacDonald said it’s probably because he’s an adventurer type,’ said Banks. ‘A gambler by nature. Maybe thinks he’s above the law? Perhaps a psychopathic personality? I must say, I thought I could pick up on a few of those traits when Annie and I talked to him. It was a perfect performance. He didn’t miss a beat.’
Gerry nodded. ‘Yes, I read that bit. The gambling part is certainly true. Apparently, he’s a high roller, known to a number of casinos and more than a few bookies. On a bit of a losing streak, too, these days, so word on the street has it. As an aside, he also has a bit of a reputation for holding sex parties at his mansion. There may be a few underage girls and boys present on occasion, and perhaps some trafficked girls. That could be how he formed his first links with traffickers and the pop-up brothel scene. Like I said, he’s a bit of a playboy. Craves attention. Likes to be photographed with celebs. Throws lavish parties for visiting pop stars and dignitaries.’
‘Worth bearing in mind,’ said Banks.
‘But his reasons for criminal activity might even be a bit more mundane than DI MacDonald’s speculations would lead one to believe,’ Gerry went on. ‘Practical rather than deeply psychological.’
‘Oh? Do explain.’
‘His business. Unicorn Investments International. It’s in trouble. I’m sure you know as well as I do that the property business in general has been undergoing a bit of a depression for some time – house prices down, market poor, that sort of thing. Brexit hasn’t helped much. Perhaps the only thing it has done is re-energise the trafficking business. They’re seeking out new ways, new routes, new documentation, new tricks for dodging inspections. Anyway, if the slump in the housing and property markets are bad news for Blaydon and his ilk, the big downturn in retail is even worse. Retail property values are down. Nobody wants shopping centres any more. They want online mail order. Just look at all the big department stores closing or in trouble lately – House of Fraser, Poundland, HMV, Debenhams, Marks & Spencer. And half the shops in the big shopping centres are empty. That affects retail income streams, and in some cases Unicorn Investments are taking in less in rent than they’re paying out in maintenance and general running costs.’
‘Blaydon’s losing money?’
‘Big time.’
‘And the proposed Elmet Centre?’
‘Not hotly tipped to be a huge success.’
‘The Albanians won’t like it if they lose their stake.’
‘Not much they can do, as we suspect it’s all laundered money to start with. But you’re right, guv. They’ll be after someone to blame before long, and Blaydon’s right in the firing line. Still, it hasn’t come to that yet, and maybe Blaydon’s thinking he can pull his chestnuts out of the fire by being useful to them in other ways. Markets go up and down, and most businesses weather the storms, especially if they don’t need to pull out the cash right away. But Unicorn has cash flow problems, and I’m sure Blaydon knows that two things you can always rely on to make money are sex and drugs.’
‘So it’s financial?’
‘Yes, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘I think so. At least partly. Maybe wholly. I’m not saying Blaydon isn’t a shit of the first order, in psychological terms, but in reality, he’s also going bust.’
‘Excellent work, Gerry.’
‘I can’t take credit, guv. Most of it’s there in DI MacDonald’s files. I just tried to put it together as succinctly as I could, in a way that makes sense of recent events.’
‘And you succeeded admirably. Anything more on Howard Stokes?’
‘I’ve just come from the mortuary,’ said Annie. ‘Dr Galway says it’s a straightforward heroin overdose. Not a trace of criminal wrongdoing. Vic Manson’s fingerprint analysis bears that out. And the prints and the angle of the needle all bear it out. It happens all too frequently. There’ll be tox screens and so on, but she’s pretty sure it was an o.d.’
‘How do we know someone didn’t sell him a hot shot?’
‘We don’t. Dr Galway wouldn’t speculate on that. There’s just no evidence that anyone did. I mean, if you want to kill a drug addict, an overdose is a pretty foolproof method.’ Annie paused. ‘There were a couple of interesting points that came up, though.’
‘Yes?’
‘Dr Galway also discovered during the post-mortem that Stokes was a diabetic. He didn’t take very good care of himself, as we know, and there’s a good chance he might have lost a foot or a leg before long if he’d carried on the way he was doing.’
‘You might also be interested to know,’ said Gerry, ‘that I checked with the local GPs and dispensing chemists, and Stokes hasn’t received any prescriptions for methadone – or anything other than insulin – for at least six months.’
‘So he’s been getting the real thing from someone?’
‘Looks that way, guv.’
‘And there’s one more thing,’ Annie said. ‘According to Dr Galway, Stokes had cancer. Pancreatic. One of the worst. It had already spread to the liver and lungs.’
‘How long—’
‘Not very long at all. She wouldn’t say exactly, but I got the impression it was weeks rather than months.’
‘So there’s even a chance he killed himself?’ said Banks.
Annie nodded. ‘I’d say so. If you have the means at hand, and you know how bad what’s coming is likely to be . . . Anyway, I think we can pretty much rule out foul play in Stokes’s case.’
‘Did the drugs squad have anything to say about Blaydon?’ Banks asked.
‘Pretty much the same as DI MacDonald told you, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘They clearly share information with Criminal Intelligence. They suspect that Blaydon is acting as a bagman for the Albanians, especially this bloke Leka Gashi, who’s the front man for the northern drugs operations, helping them take over the local county lines and so on. Apparently, Blaydon and Gashi first met up in Sarandë about ten years ago.’
‘I’ve been there,’ Banks said. ‘Strange place.’ He remembered Sarandë. He had been on a Dalmatian Coast and Greek Island cruise with Sandra years ago, and they had docked there to visit some nearby Roman ruins. What he remembered most of all was the approach from the sea – the tall buildings, and how the closer you got, the more you could see that they were empty – that you could, in fact, see right through the holes where the windows and walls should have been. It was hard to work out whether they were unfinished or had been shelled. He also remembered the town square littered with rubbish and the groups of men sitting around roasting a whole pig, then out in the countryside the isolated cottages, like fairy-tale witch houses with strange effigies nailed to the doors to ward off evil spirits. It had been like stepping back in time, at least as far back as a sixties Hammer horror movie. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry for interrupting. Go on.’
‘Remember, Blaydon’s got a place on Corfu, and it’s just across the water. Even back then, Blaydon was throwing lavish parties on his yacht to impress any celebs and major players passing through, and Gashi was his coke contact. Strictly third division back then, but he’s gone up in the world since. There’s also a rumour that Gashi helped Blaydon get rid
of his partner, Norman Peel. Apparently Peel didn’t like the drugs and the Mafia connection, and he was ready to blow the whistle. But Gashi’s no longer involved on a day-to-day basis. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty any more. He has a host of minions to do that for him now.’
‘Minions like Blaydon?’
‘I’d say Blaydon’s a bit higher in the hierarchy than that, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘His value is most likely in areas other than muscle. He’s not without political and judicial influence, and if he has people working for him on the inside, especially police officers . . .’
‘I see what you mean. The Albanian takeover could upset a few people who’ve already invested heavily in those routes. Locals.’
‘It could,’ said Gerry. ‘And it has. According to my contact on the drugs squad, we don’t exactly have a gang war on our hands, not up here at any rate, but there are a few scuffles on the sidelines, people getting elbowed out of the way, mostly the Leeds dealers. Several hospitalisations, a couple of fatalities.’
‘I’ll have a word with DCI Blackstone.’
‘These days the Albanians can supply a purer product at a cheaper rate,’ Gerry went on. ‘What’s not to like about that?’
‘What about our dead boy? Anything on who he might be yet?’
‘Not yet, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s starting to look more and more as if he’s entered the country illegally, or simply slipped through the cracks. No useful CCTV so far, and only traces of grass and soil and May blossom in the bin and on his clothing.’
‘There are no trees or grass on the East Side Estate,’ said Banks.
‘Oh, come on, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘It’s not as bad as all that. There are a few gardens and a little grass square with swings and roundabouts for the kiddies.’
‘And dealers.’
‘There’s even a tree,’ said Annie. ‘I’m sure I saw it once.’
Gerry rolled her eyes and went on. ‘We do, however, have a couple of sightings that came in from the media appeal. One woman thought she saw the boy on Sunday evening coming out of the McDonald’s near the bus station. He was carrying a backpack and wearing a dark zip-up jacket.’
‘Dr Galway said that the victim had eaten a burger an hour or two before he died,’ Banks said.
Gerry nodded. ‘One of the girls there remembers serving him. There weren’t a lot of customers around that time. And there was another sighting by the Leaview Estate a bit later. Neither witness is sure of the timings, and the second one couldn’t even be sure it was our boy, but it was either around or just after dark on Sunday. We also managed to track down a bus driver who remembered a Middle Eastern lad getting on in Leeds, at the central bus station there, and getting off in Eastvale. The bus arrived at 9.45 p.m., just as it was getting dark.’
‘It’s hardly surprising so few people saw him then. Eastvale’s pretty dead at that time on a Sunday night. The Leaview Estate?’ Banks mused. ‘It’s not the quickest way from the bus station to Hollyfield Lane, if we’re still working on the theory that he was involved in a county line there.’
‘It might be for someone who doesn’t know Eastvale,’ suggested Annie.
‘Good point. Did this second witness have anything to add?’
Gerry scanned the witness statement. ‘Nothing, sir, except this man also says the lad he saw was carrying a backpack. Wearing it, I suppose.’
‘At least the missing items explain why he had nothing but the coke on him. He must have kept his money and stuff in the jacket or the backpack. I wonder what happened to them.’
‘Maybe he dropped them off somewhere on the way, guv?’ Gerry suggested. ‘Somewhere on the Leaview Estate. It was a warm evening, the day before the storm, so maybe he took his jacket off and left it somewhere.’
‘If he left it at Leaview, that rather puts our county lines theory to waste, doesn’t it,’ Banks replied. ‘At least as far as Hollyfield Lane is concerned. It’s unlikely they’d have two trap houses here in Eastvale. Can we link the boy to Stokes at all?’
‘No, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘Not yet, at any rate. We found no trace of the backpack or jacket at his house. But Stefan’s team are still there; if there is a connection, they’ll come up with it eventually.’
‘You’re thinking Howard Stokes was cuckooed, aren’t you?’ Annie asked.
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Banks. ‘Isn’t that how the county lines operate? Send in a kid to distribute the phone orders out of someone’s house. Take over his nest, like a cuckoo. Usually someone who can’t do anything about it. Someone disabled, or a vulnerable junkie like Stokes. It explains why he hadn’t been getting any methadone scripts and was managing to maintain his habit. They’d pay him in heroin.’
‘But why kill him, guv?’ Gerry asked. ‘I mean, whatever Stokes was, he wasn’t a major player. I doubt the boy was, either, even if he was involved. But Stokes did provide them with a safe and solid base to work from.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Stokes killed himself because of the cancer? There’s a lot we don’t know yet. Maybe if the Albanians are taking over . . .’
‘A warning?’ said Annie. ‘Like we thought before?’
‘Or a reprisal,’ said Banks. ‘Let’s try knocking on doors along Hollyfield Lane. There must be people still living there.’
‘There are, guv,’ said Gerry. ‘Uniform branch did a door-to-door just after we found Stokes’s body. It turned up nothing.’
‘You do it again, Gerry. Even if Stokes did die of a genuine drug overdose, it doesn’t mean there was no monkey business involved. Show everyone the boy’s picture.’
‘Right, guv.’
‘And up Elmet Hill, too,’ said Banks. ‘We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’re favouring the better off. There’s plenty of people living up there, and they’re not free from suspicion, even though they’ve got more money. They’ve got a Neighbourhood Watch, too. It might be worth having a word with some of them. They may have seen or heard something on their wanderings.’
‘OK.’ Gerry glanced at Annie. ‘By the way, guv. DI Cabbot asked me to look into the Lisa Bartlett sexual assault again. As you know, I handled that case, talked to Lisa at the time. She was pretty upset.’
‘I can imagine,’ said Banks. ‘Poor lass. Make her part of your inquiries in the area. Have another chat with her. See if she can remember anything else. Find out if she’d ever seen our boy or knows who Stokes was.’
Gerry made a note on her pad. ‘Will do, guv.’
Zelda felt a surge of excitement when she woke up the following morning. She was getting closer; she could feel it. She had slept far better than the previous night and could remember no bad dreams, not even fragments. Her nights were unpredictable, as were the moods of despair and feelings of worthlessness that washed over her like tsunamis out of nowhere and swept all hope away. She had no way of foreseeing them. Or the panic attacks. Sometimes she could guess later that a specific incident had set off the chain reaction – a face in the crowd that seemed too much like one of the men who had abused her, groups of men behaving aggressively, men giving her certain glances or making lewd comments, bedraggled, frightened-looking girls sitting on pavements hugging their knees and keeping their heads down as they begged for loose change. But her panic didn’t always require any of those triggers to set it off.
Raymond had learned to leave her alone when such feelings enveloped her, though more and more she found herself going to him for comfort, wanting to be held. That had taken a long time. Her psychiatrist, if she had one, would no doubt have noted it as a positive sign, an acceptance of the need for human warmth and help she had spurned for so long after her traumatic experiences. But Raymond never questioned her, never asked for explanations; he simply gave her comfort when she needed it. Maybe that was why she had started to trust him after so long, to love him. She was quite aware that the only two men she had ever loved, apart from her father, whom she could hardly remember, were much older than she was, but she didn’t dwell on
it. She was happy with Raymond, happy in a way she had never thought she could be again, and as happy as she could ever be, given the nightmares and the shame and the guilt – not for what she had done, but for what she had allowed it to do to her.
That morning she indulged herself in a large latte and a blueberry muffin at the Caffè Nero on the ground floor of the Oxo Tower. Joggers flashed by, and already the tourists were holding up their mobiles for selfies along on the waterfront. Two excited young women, who looked as if they were preparing for a modelling session, sat at the next table and discussed angles and locations with their photographer. With her black hair tied back in a loose chignon, accenting her high cheekbones, and her dark eyes, olive complexion and slender but shapely figure, Zelda herself might have been taken for a model, though her uniform of jeans, white open-neck shirt and kidskin jacket were hardly the apex of haute couture. She did notice the photographer glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, as if appraising her, from time to time. It made her feel a little uncomfortable but didn’t bring on a tsunami.
Foyles was in full swing when Zelda arrived, a huge, bright book emporium with a wonderful sense of natural light and space. There were the requisite displays of notebooks and gift items by the ground floor cash registers, but beyond stood a wall of recent titles facing out towards the reader. For a few moments, Zelda just stood there, overwhelmed, reading titles but not really taking them in. On her previous visits she had always been either browsing or searching for a specific title, but this time she had no idea where to begin. She had vaguely worked out how she would approach Keane’s girlfriend, but not how she would find her in the first place. At least she wasn’t working the ground floor tills, so that was a start. These things all seemed so easy in movies, but in real life they were a different matter. She didn’t think she looked threatening or dangerous, so she hoped that the people she talked to would trust her and not feel they needed to hide the truth or call the police.