Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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She decided that the best thing to do would be to check out all five floors first, and if there was no sign of her there, she would start showing the photograph around to members of staff. She was nervous about that, as she had no more of an explanation for it now than she had the previous evening in the restaurant. No doubt she would think of something.
And so she began her search, walking each floor, checking the faces of anyone at an information desk, carrying or stacking piles of books, adjusting shelf displays or talking to customers, until she arrived at the gallery and cafe on the fifth floor. The woman serving behind the counter there definitely wasn’t the one she was looking for; nor were any of the people sitting at a table enjoying a coffee break.
Zelda started working her way back down again, this time showing the photo to every employee she met. She had no idea how many people worked in Foyles, or how the hierarchy functioned, but one or two people she talked to thought they recognised the woman but just couldn’t place her. Some merely seemed suspicious and were unwilling to help her at all.
Finally, Zelda got lucky on the third floor.
‘That looks like Ms Butler,’ said a young girl on her knees, shelving business self-help books.
Zelda’s spirits revived. ‘Where can I find her?’
The girl’s expression turned guarded. ‘Who wants to know?’ she asked. ‘And where did this photograph come from?’
‘I’d just like to talk to her. That’s all.’
‘I wouldn’t want to get her into any trouble.’
‘She’s not in any trouble. Honest,’ said Zelda, dredging up her best smile.
The girl chewed on her lip for a few moments, then said, ‘Ms Butler. Faye. She’s head of our art department. You should find her on the ground floor.’
Hadn’t Banks told her that Keane was involved in the art world when the two of them had crossed swords a few years ago? He had moved on now, if the photograph with Tadić was to be believed, but that didn’t mean he had completely left his earlier interests behind.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Zelda.
The girl nodded and went back to shelving books. Zelda walked down the stairs to the ground floor. She approached a young man rearranging a stack of books on a table centrepiece and asked if Ms Butler was around.
‘Faye?’ said the young man, glancing around. ‘She was here a few moments ago. Must have nipped into the office. Can I help?’
Zelda smiled sweetly. ‘No, thank you. I really need to talk to Ms Butler.’
‘OK. Won’t be a jiffy.’
He disappeared through a STAFF ONLY door and reappeared a minute or two later with the young blonde woman in Zelda’s photograph. It had been difficult to tell her age when Zelda had followed her and Hawkins along Oxford Street just before Christmas, but now Zelda saw her in the flesh, she guessed that Faye Butler was probably about the same age as she was. Faye approached, a puzzled expression on her pixie-ish face, and said, ‘Hello. I’m Faye Butler. Ron here says you want to talk to me.’
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Zelda said. ‘Yes, I’d like to talk to you if you have a few moments to spare.’
‘What’s it about?’ Faye asked, dismissing Ron with a wave of the hand.
‘It’s about Phil Keane. I understand you go out with him, or used to.’
Faye folded her arms. ‘I don’t know what you want, or who you are, but I’ve never heard of any Phil Keane.’
Before Faye could turn and walk away, Zelda held out the photo. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’
Faye paused and examined the photograph. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where you got it, but it’s me. Perhaps I’d better call the police?’
Zelda took a deep breath. After the next step, there would be no turning back. ‘I am the police,’ she said.
‘Do you have identification?’
Zelda wasn’t sure it would pass muster, but she did have her NCA pass, and it did have the words ‘National Crime Agency’ printed on it, along with an impressive logo, insignia and her photograph.
‘NCA?’ said Faye. ‘That’s the British FBI, isn’t it?’
‘Some newspapers call us that.’
‘It must be important, then. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about. This man in the picture isn’t called Phil Keane. His name is Hugh Foley. And, yes, we used to go out together, but not for a while now.’
It was just after five o’clock when Annie arrived at the wood-panelled facade of Le Coq d’Or. Like Banks, she had never eaten there. The restaurant didn’t open until six, so she knocked at the front door and an elegant young woman in a black turtleneck sweater and matching black slacks answered. When Annie introduced herself, the woman said she was Florence and had been expecting someone from the police. She excused herself for a moment, then she returned, carrying a pack of cigarettes, came outside and closed the door behind her. It was a mild evening, and she seemed comfortable enough without a jacket.
‘Let’s just go down here,’ she said, and led Annie a few yards towards York Road, beyond which the limestone castle was visible, high on its hill against a backdrop of blue sky. They stood outside a closed antiquarian bookshop with a window display of beautiful old maps. ‘I’m dying for a fag,’ Florence went on, ‘and Marcel doesn’t like me smoking right outside the restaurant, even when it’s closed. Says it looks bad. I suppose he’s right, really.’ She smiled nervously, pulled a Rothmans from her packet and lit it with a green Bic. She took a deep drag and let out the smoke slowly. ‘So what did you want to know?’
‘About Sunday night.’
‘Yes.’
‘I understand a man called Connor Clive Blaydon was dining with Tommy and Timmy, the Kerrigan brothers.’
Florence puffed on her cigarette and nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Do you remember what time they left?’
‘It was just after eleven o’clock. We’d been closed officially for ages, and they were the only ones left, but . . . well . . . what can you do?’
‘It does seem rather inconsiderate.’
Florence shrugged. ‘A customer’s a customer.’
‘Big spenders?’
She nodded.
‘And generous tippers?’
‘Generous enough to make it worthwhile staying late. After all, I’ve got nowhere to go except my lonely little flat.’ She laughed dismissively at herself. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t given Marcel every opportunity, but he’s not interested. And his real name’s not Marcel, it’s Roland.’
Annie laughed. ‘Anyone else still there?’
‘By then? Only the kitchen staff. They’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do at the end of a service. Marcel’s a real stickler about cleanliness and hygiene. You have to be if you want Michelin stars.’
‘When the party left, did you see where they went?’
‘They all got into Mr Blaydon’s car.’
‘It was parked outside?’
‘Yes. I opened the restaurant door for them and saw them get into it. A nice black Mercedes. They were all a bit tipsy by then.’
‘What about earlier? Was the car outside all evening?’
‘Oh, no. They couldn’t possibly park there. He had to back out as it was. You can see how the street narrows towards York Road.’
Annie looked in the direction Florence was pointing and saw it was true. It was as Banks had told her.
‘So how did he know what time to turn up?’
‘Mr Blaydon used his mobile to call the driver when they wanted to leave.’
‘And you’re sure the car wasn’t already waiting outside?’
‘Well, I managed to sneak out for a smoke around nine-thirty, just after Marcel had gone home, when the evening’s service was officially finished, and it certainly wasn’t there then.’
‘Was Mr Blaydon in the restaurant all evening, all that time between seven-thirty and eleven?’
‘Yes. Wait a minute. He got a call on his mobile and went outside to answer it.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Around ten.’
‘How long was he gone?’
‘I don’t know. Not long. Five minutes. Ten at the most.’
‘And you’ve no idea who called him?’
‘No.’
‘How did he react to the call?’
‘He didn’t, really. He just answered it and went outside.’
‘How did he seem? Was he upset? Overjoyed?’
‘He didn’t react either way. Just like it was some normal business matter or something. I was passing the table, and I heard him tell the others he’d be back in a couple of minutes.’
‘What about the Kerrigans? Did either of them leave the restaurant at all?’
‘No. They used the toilet once or twice – they had quite a lot to drink – but that’s all. The rest of the time they stayed at the table.’
‘What was the mood like?’
‘Mood?’
‘Yes. The dinner. Were they festive, celebrating, businesslike, laughing, arguing . . .?’
‘Oh, I see. Well, mostly they seemed in pretty good spirits. There were a few toasts – two bottles of Veuve Clicquot. They were certainly quieter earlier in the evening, when there were other diners present. I suppose they let their hair down a bit when they were the only ones left.’
‘In what way?’
‘You know, raised their voices a bit, that sort of thing.’
‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’
Florence almost choked on her cigarette. ‘I make it a point not to overhear conversations in the restaurant. Marcel wouldn’t approve of my eavesdropping.’
‘But surely you can’t help it now and then? Even if it’s just a word or two.’
Florence flicked ash from her cigarette. ‘There’s always plenty of other stuff to do.’
A young couple walked by hand in hand and Florence smiled at them.
‘Were they just laughing a lot or talking business?’ Annie asked.
‘Bit of both, really. There was some laughter, especially later, after the sweets and Cognac, but mostly I think they must have been talking business, maybe celebrating a success of some sort.’
‘But you don’t know what?’
Florence looked around. Annie followed her gaze back towards the restaurant. The street was empty.
‘They did raise their voices once, just after the last of the other diners had gone.’
‘Who spoke? What did he say? Do you know what it was about?’
‘No. But I think I heard one of them . . .’ She glanced around her again. ‘It was one of those brothers, the creepy one with the milky eye.’
‘Tommy Kerrigan?’
‘Right. He shouted something about a “fucking Albanian” or something like that.’ She dropped her cigarette and stamped it out in the gutter. ‘You won’t do me for littering, will you?’
Annie shook her head. ‘Are you sure that’s what he said? About the Albanian?’
Florence shrugged. ‘It’s what I thought he said. He was definitely angry, though. His brother had to calm him down. You could tell he was ready to hurt someone.’
‘Hurt who?’
‘Anyone. I’ve seen him like that before. When he gets like that it doesn’t matter. It could easily have been me if I hadn’t made myself scarce. They’re pigs, those two.’
‘Are you sure you didn’t hear anything else?’
‘There was quite a bit of swearing. And the other brother called me a slut.’
‘To your face?’
‘No. I was in the kitchen, but I heard him. He said, “Let’s tell the slut to bring our bill”.’
‘Did he give you a hard time when you appeared?’
Florence blushed. ‘No, not really. Just the usual. “Come home with me, love, and I’ll give you something to smile about.” That sort of thing. And he kept calling me “sugar tits”.’
All class, Timmy Kerrigan, thought Annie.
‘Don’t tell Marcel, please,’ Florence said, touching Annie’s arm. ‘It was nothing, really. They’re good customers, and he’ll think I want him to bar them. He’d never forgive me.’
‘Forgive you?’ Annie said.
‘You know what I mean. If it seemed like I was complaining and trying to make something out of it. He wouldn’t tolerate behaviour like theirs, but he’d blame me. It was no big deal. It happens.’
‘Not so often in a restaurant like Le Coq d’Or, I shouldn’t think,’ said Annie.
‘You’d be surprised. Just because they’re posh doesn’t mean they’re not nasty. Plenty of regulars seem to think they’ve got “coqs d’or” themselves.’ Annie stared at her, mouth open for a couple of seconds, then they both burst out laughing.
When they’d quietened down, Florence said, ‘I’ve got to go now. I still have a few things to do before we open. But there’s one more thing that might interest you.’
Annie’s mobile started to vibrate but she ignored it for the moment. ‘What’s that?’
‘The creepy one. He looked as if he’d been in a fight. He had a cut over one eye and bruising on his cheek.’
‘Ah,’ said Annie. ‘At least we know there’s some justice in the world, then.’
Zelda had expected Keane to have changed his name along with his profession, especially as he was still wanted by the police for the attempted murder of Alan Banks, so she was hardly surprised by what Faye Butler told her. ‘Perhaps we could have a private chat somewhere?’ she said. ‘The cafe? I promise I won’t keep you long.’
‘All right. You’ve got me curious now. Fifteen minutes.’
They headed up the stairs to the cafe and found a secluded corner table. Zelda fetched them two coffees and sat down opposite Faye.
‘What I’d really like,’ Zelda said, ‘is to find this man, whatever name he’s going under.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘What makes you think he’s done anything?’
‘Well, the NCA is asking after him, for a start. And if he had a reason to change his name . . . I mean, why would someone do that if they didn’t have something to hide?’
‘Did you feel he had something to hide when you were with him?’
‘He could be very secretive. I never felt I really got to know him. It’s like there was always another layer. That was one of the problems, I suppose. I didn’t feel I knew the real Hugh Foley. If there was one.’
‘We don’t know that he has done anything yet,’ Zelda said. ‘We just know that he was friendly with one or two criminals we had under surveillance.’ She lay the picture on the table and tapped it. ‘What do you remember about this other man in the photo with the two of you?’
‘I don’t remember anything. I don’t even remember his name, if I ever did know it. They went off to a table for a private chat for a few minutes. I was talking to some friends from work at the bar. After that, we left and did some window-shopping. It was near Christmas. Then we went back.’
‘Back where?’
‘Hugh’s hotel.’
‘Hotel?’
‘Yes. He travelled a lot in his line of work, so when he was here he usually stayed in a hotel. If we wanted to spend time together . . . you know . . . that’s where we’d go. I was sharing a flat with two other girls, so it could be a bit awkward going to my place.’
‘Do you know where he actually lived?’
Faye frowned. ‘Not really. I mean, it never came up. I remember he once told me he was from Portsmouth, but he didn’t live there. I think he might have lived on the continent somewhere. At least, that was the impression I got from the places he talked about.’
‘The same hotel every time?’
‘Yes. He said once you’ve found a good thing why change it.’
‘Must have been expensive.’
Faye shrugged. ‘Money never seemed to be a problem with Hugh.’
Zelda realised that she was living in a hotel at the moment, and money wasn’t a great problem for her, eithe
r, though at least a part of her expenses were covered by the NCA. ‘What was it called?’
‘I can’t remember. It was a small place, one of those boutique hotels with a foreign name. Quite nice, really. A city in Eastern Europe. Budapest? Bucharest? No. Belgrade. That’s what it was called. The Belgrade.’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘Fitzrovia.’
Zelda knew the area. She had stayed at a Holiday Inn there once.
Faye blew on her coffee. ‘What’s this all about? Can’t you give me just an inkling?’
She was an attractive woman, and Zelda could see how she would appeal to men. She was taller than Zelda remembered, and she now wore her blonde hair cut short, emphasising her heart-shaped face and big blue eyes. She had a sweet smile, when she chose to flash it. Not too sophisticated, but quick, bright and charming, certainly a good enough companion to show off at a business dinner with the boss. Her figure looked good, too, under the work clothes. Zelda imagined she would scrub up well. The problem was that Zelda couldn’t yet decide whether Faye was as crooked as Keane/Foley or merely an innocent bystander. On first impressions, she was inclined towards the latter view, but she was keeping her options open.
‘What does he do?’ she asked.
‘He’s in art and antiques, a buyer for a number of swanky galleries. New York. Paris. Milan. Berlin. That sort of thing. He specialises in eastern and southern European artefacts and paintings. The Balkans, Greece, the ex-Soviet republics. Religious icons, that sort of thing. That’s why he travels such a lot.’
It was a good cover, Zelda thought. ‘Is that how you met?’
‘Yes. Here. In the shop. He wanted to order a book on Bulgarian antiquities. It was out of print, and I said I’d do my best to locate a copy for him. Then . . . well, one thing led to another. He was quite charming, and very attractive. I suppose I was flattered. He asked me out for a drink. Then dinner. Then . . . Look, your English is wonderful, but I think I can hear a trace of an accent in the way you talk. Are you from Eastern Europe or somewhere like that?’