Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘Somewhere like that,’ said Zelda.
‘Only I met quite a few of them when I was with Hugh. You know, Serbs, Croatians, Bosnians.’
‘I’m from Moldova.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Between Ukraine and Romania. A long way from the Balkans. Far enough, anyway. Did you ever meet a man called Petar Tadić?’
‘Petar? From Croatia? Yes. We had drinks with him a few times. He wasn’t too bad. Quite gallant, really. Nicer than his brother.’
Zelda felt herself tense up. Petar Tadić had been far from gallant when she had met him. ‘His brother Goran?’
Faye hesitated. ‘Yes. I think that was his name. He gave me the creeps.’
‘What do you mean?’
Faye shrugged. ‘You know. He was good-looking enough and all that, but he sort of leered at you. Undressed you with his eyes. Made suggestive comments. He’d lean over and whisper behind his hand in Hugh’s ear, eyeing me all the while. That sort of thing. Hugh didn’t like him, either. I could tell. He just had to do business with him, so he put up with him.’
Zelda nodded. If only that had been all Goran Tadić had done to her: leer and whisper crude comments. ‘So when Hugh met the man in the Italian restaurant the evening that photograph was taken, you didn’t take part in the discussions?’
‘No. I was never involved in any business talks. To be honest, I could hardly imagine anything more boring. Could you? That was one of the things . . .’ She let the thought trail off.
‘What were you going to say?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Please tell me.’
Faye studied her for a moment, then said, ‘It was one of the bones of contention between us. Hugh’s secrecy. And his business. It seemed there was always something going on, always some more important client, buyer or seller to meet, and I was . . . Well, it was always more important than me.’
‘You felt you were relegated to second place?’
‘Yes. Or third.’
‘Did you know who this man he met that night was?’
‘No. Hugh just said he was a business contact and he wouldn’t be long.’
‘Do you have any idea what they talked about?’
‘No. It was pretty crowded and noisy. Like I said, I was at the bar chatting. I wasn’t interested in Hugh’s business meetings. Why are you asking all this? What has he done? He must have done something, or you wouldn’t be asking me all these questions.’
‘It’s more the man he met that we’re interested in,’ Zelda lied. ‘Along with the Tadić brothers.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there. I know nothing about them. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Goran Tadić wasn’t up to his neck in something dirty, though. He had that aura about him.’
‘Could you tell me anything more about the meeting in the Italian restaurant, from what you saw – your impressions, whatever?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did they appear to be arguing, problem-solving, joking?’
‘It was just ordinary, really. Just a discussion.’
‘Neither one was angry or particularly animated? No raised voices?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Who did most of the talking?’
‘Well, whenever I looked over to see if he was finished, Hugh seemed to be talking. I did see the other man try to interrupt once, but Hugh cut him off sharply.’
‘As if he was telling him to do something? Lecturing him? Giving him orders?’
‘Or giving him a bollocking. Just a mild one.’
So perhaps Hawkins wasn’t warning Keane about her, after all, Zelda thought. Their meeting could have been about something else entirely, something to do with whatever it was that connected them. ‘Did they exchange anything?’
‘Like what?’
‘Objects, pieces of paper, briefcases, that sort of thing.’
‘No, nothing as far as I could tell. You mean like spies? Is he a spy, this man? Is Hugh a spy? Are you?’
‘When did you stop seeing Hugh Foley?’
‘A couple of months ago.’
‘Why? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I can’t see as it’s any of the police’s business, but in addition to what I’ve already told you, he was a bit of a bastard. I mean, there was already the important business stuff, and the secrecy, and how he was always disappearing; he was really unreliable, not turning up for dates and so on. But in the end it was the fact that he cheated on me that did it. The straw that broke the camel’s back, you might say. Or at least my back.’
‘Who with?’
‘There was more than one. I suspected for a while.’
‘You caught him red-handed?’
Faye nodded. ‘Eventually.’ She lowered her voice. ‘In flagrante.’ Then she put her hand to her mouth and started laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But you had to be there. It was in the hotel. I went up once when he wasn’t expecting me.’
‘And he answered the door?’
‘Yes. Opened it a crack. He wouldn’t let me in, of course, said he wasn’t feeling well, but I could tell what was going on. I even caught a glimpse of her in the mirror.’
Zelda smiled.
‘It was no big deal,’ Faye went on. ‘We weren’t serious or anything. It was just a bit of fun. I wasn’t heartbroken.’
‘Still,’ said Zelda. ‘A girl doesn’t like to be two-timed.’
‘Damn right. But I didn’t shoot the both of them, or set fire to the bed, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Zelda laughed. ‘Good. Then I really would have to arrest you.’
Faye seemed uncertain for a moment whether she was joking, then she must have seen the humour in Zelda’s expression, because she started laughing again. ‘He was a bastard, plain and simple,’ she said finally. ‘It’s not as if he’s the only one. There are plenty more where he came from. Sometimes I think all men are bastards.’
‘Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,’ Zelda said. ‘Have you seen him since?’
‘No way. Cross me once, and you don’t get another chance.’
‘Who was the new girl?’
‘No idea. Never saw her before. Or since.’
‘Foley hasn’t stalked you, harassed you in any way?’
‘Lord, no.’
‘Tell me about some of these people you met. The Eastern Europeans. Did you and Hugh socialise with them?’
‘Yes. Usually at the hotel. They all seemed to hang out there a lot. The others usually had pretty girls on their arms, but the conversation was never up to much. You know the sort of thing.’
‘Did you ever hear what they were talking about?’
‘Only if we were all chatting together, you know. But some of the girls hardly spoke English.’
‘Chatting about what?’
‘Small talk, usually. The weather. Brexit. Movies. Football.’
‘But not business?’
‘Hugh knew it bored me. If they wanted to talk business, they would go off by themselves and do it.’
Zelda was almost convinced that Faye had nothing to do with Keane’s secret, evil world. ‘You’re best out of it,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re dangerous people, Faye. Take my word for it. You got out of their world without any serious emotional damage. You should put Hugh Foley right out of your mind and get on with your life. Are you seeing anyone else yet?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am.’
‘May I ask who?’
Faye paused. ‘Well, it’s none of your business, but it’s someone here. At work.’
‘Nothing to do with Foley and his pals?’
‘You must be joking.’
‘Good,’ said Zelda. ‘Excellent.’ She stood up and Faye did likewise. ‘I’m sorry to intrude on your day. I don’t think I’ll have to bother you again.’
‘It’s no bother, really,’ said Faye
. ‘Quite exciting, really, being questioned by the NCA. My affair with a master criminal.’
‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ said Zelda, smiling. ‘And it might be best if you weren’t to tell anyone about our meeting.’
Faye put her finger to her mouth. ‘My lips are sealed.’
At least Banks’s office didn’t resemble a government waiting room or an administrative annex, he thought. It had comfortable chairs around a low glass table and looked out over the market square, catching a little evening sunshine through its large sash windows, one of which was open a few inches. Banks had no idea what the couple’s story was – they had just appeared in reception around six o’clock saying they were the dead boy’s aunt and uncle from Huddersfield – but he had a feeling that the offices of foreign authority figures probably had bad memories for them. Even with Annie present, just back from Le Coq d’Or, the room didn’t seem overcrowded.
They were in their late thirties, Banks guessed, and definitely of Middle Eastern origin. The uncle wore a brown suit, white shirt and loose tie, and his wife a western-style long dress that covered every inch of her except her head, over which she wore a simple green silk headscarf as a hijab, covering her head and framing her face and frightened brown eyes. She sat erect, knees together, clutching a brown faux-crocodile handbag on her lap. The uncle seemed more relaxed, legs crossed, leaning back in his chair a little. But his eyes also showed nervousness and had dark shadows under them. Banks knew it couldn’t have been easy for them to come to the police, and he wondered if that was what had delayed them.
‘I am Aimar Hadeed,’ said the man, ‘and this is my wife Ranim. I apologise, but we do not speak very fine English. Our language is Arabic.’
‘We can get a translator if you like?’ said Banks. ‘It may take a while to set up, but if it makes you more comfortable . . .’
‘I think I can manage,’ Aimar said. ‘It is my wife who does not speak so much.’
Banks smiled at Ranim Hadeed. She gave him a nervous smile in return. ‘As you can imagine,’ Aimar went on, ‘we are both very upset.’
‘Understandably,’ Banks said. ‘Perhaps you can begin by telling me why it took you so long to come here?’
Aimar spread his hands. ‘We did not know. We do not read the newspapers. We do not have television. We are not ignorant people. We come from Aleppo, and we are thought to be very Western in many ways, but here we . . . we feel lost . . . We have a community. People like us, who speak our language. We do not drink. We go out very little.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Banks asked.
‘We came in 2017.’
‘And you’ve lived in Huddersfield all that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how did you find out about . . .’
‘His name is Samir,’ Aimar said. ‘Samir Boulad.’
‘How did you find out about Samir?’
‘A neighbour came yesterday. He told us of the boy who had been murdered in North Yorkshire. He showed us a photograph. It was Samir. And so we came here. Can we see him? Can we see Samir?’
‘Yes. Later,’ said Banks. ‘I would like you to identify him for us. We couldn’t find anyone who knew who he was.’
‘We did not know he was here.’
‘In England?’
Aimar nodded. ‘We did not know he had arrived. Such a journey can take a long time.’
‘Did you know he was coming?’
‘Yes. We knew he had left Aleppo. My sister send us letter, but it takes long to arrive. But we do not know what happens after that. Where is Samir. How he travels. There are many perils.’
‘Were you expecting him?’
‘We thought he would come to us. Yes.’
‘Did he know where you lived?’
‘My sister write down address for him, but . . . the journey . . . many difficulties. Maybe he loses a small piece of paper?’
‘And it’s a big country,’ said Banks.
Aimar smiled sadly. ‘Yes.’
‘Weren’t you worried when he didn’t turn up?’
‘We worry every day. But we did not know where to look for him or when he would come. You must understand, Mr Banks, that many people make this journey. Many people attempt, but not all arrive. It is always possible he is still in Greece or Italy. Or France. Many people live in camps.’
‘So nobody knew where he was living or what he was doing?’
‘No. These people who sail boats and drive lorries, they are bad men. They rob and they kill. When you set out, you do not know if you will arrive or if you will drown. Or where you will arrive. How long it takes. It’s a dangerous journey. Many rivers to cross. Many seas. There are many routes and many dangers on every one. Border checks, bandits. Samir wanted to come to show he was a true man and to light the way for his mother and father and sisters. To get money for them to come.’
‘They couldn’t afford to come?’
‘They could not all pay, no. These smugglers want much money. And Ranim and I, we could not help. We both work, we clean offices at night, but it is not good job, and not good pay.’
‘Samir’s family was going to follow?’
‘Yes. When Samir could send them money. But sometimes the men with boats, they make you keep paying. Samir very young. Only thirteen. They could make him work many months before they say he has paid them what he owes.’
‘Well, he got here,’ said Banks.
‘But what happened? The paper my friend showed me said someone stabbed him.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hadeed, but that’s true. Yes.’
An expression of pain passed across his face. ‘But why? He was only a boy. He never hurt anyone.’
‘We don’t know why. Until you came here today, we didn’t even know his name or his nationality.’
Ranim put her head in her hands and wept. Her husband comforted her. When her tears had subsided, Banks asked if they would like more tea, or coffee. Aimar asked for a glass of water for his wife and Banks fetched it. Annie sat next to Ranim and helped comfort her. Banks was beginning to feel sick and angry. Samir had come all this way, suffered God only knew what trials and tribulations in his rite of passage, only to end up dead in a wheelie bin, without even an identity.
‘I won’t keep you much longer,’ Banks said after handing the glass of water to Ranim. ‘Do you know if Samir travelled legally at any stage? Would he have been through the formalities when he arrived here?’
‘I do not know. But maybe I think not.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I mean, we are not from immigration. It’s just a matter of checking with authorities to see if we have any record of him entering the country. Was he an asylum seeker?’
‘He was scared young boy,’ said Aimar. ‘I think he maybe just get off boat and run.’
‘I want to try and arrange for his parents to come to claim his body. I can’t promise you anything, but I will—’
‘No!’ Aimar shook his head. ‘No. You do not understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘Ali, and my sister Lely. They cannot come here now.’
‘Why not?’
Aimar grasped Ranim’s hand. She was weeping again. ‘Because they are dead,’ he went on. ‘All dead. Mother. Father. Sisters.’
‘My God,’ said Banks. ‘How?’ But even as he asked, he knew it was a silly question.
‘Bomb,’ said Aimar, and with tears in his eyes and a kind of matter-of-fact finality, he made a flying and diving gesture with his hand, then mimicked the sound of an explosion.
Chapter 7
DC Gerry Masterson walked down Elmet Hill to talk to Granville Myers, who headed the local Neighbourhood Watch. She had talked to Myers before, while investigating the attack on Lisa Bartlett, and thought it was unlikely that he or any of his team would know anything about the death of Howard Stokes. It had taken place beyond the park, in what might well have been a foreign country. But the visit still had to be made. The residents of the
hill area were already complaining about the lack of police presence – hence the Neighbourhood Watch – especially since Lisa’s sexual assault a month ago.
Elmet Hill was a strange area. For a start, on printed town maps the main road was always referred to as Elmet Street, but nobody ever called it that. The tree-lined hill that curved like a bow on its way from North Market Street down to Cardigan Drive was known to all as Elmet Hill, and along its path it radiated a number of winding side streets – a Close, a Terrace, a Crescent, a Way, among others – which made up the area locals referred to as simply ‘the hill’. It was not to be confused with The Heights, of course, Eastvale’s poshest enclave. Gerry had often thought how strange it was to have all three in a row, running downhill from east to west: richest, less rich, poor.
Beyond the small park at the bottom of Elmet Hill ran Cardigan Drive, and over the street stood the decaying and mostly empty streets of the doomed Hollyfield Estate. A popular pub called The Oak stood at the south-eastern corner of Elmet Hill and Cardigan Drive, on the edge of the park, and its beer garden looked out on the trees and the narrow tributary of the River Swain that ran through the park.
The people fortunate enough to live in the pleasant, leafy streets around Elmet Hill were grateful for the short green belt that separated them from Hollyfield, and most people in the neighbourhood were in favour of the new development, although the idea of Elmet Hill being extended through the park at the bottom to form a link with the proposed new shopping centre was a bugbear. Nobody really wanted more traffic running up and down the hill, and nor did they want to lose their park. There were counterproposals, and the local citizens’ committee were hopeful they could get some changes made to the present plan.
It was early evening, and Gerry was glad to be out of the squad room. She had just heard about the boy’s aunt and uncle identifying their nephew’s body. They could now put a name to him: Samir Boulad, from Syria. But they knew nothing else about him yet, except that he had made a long and hard journey away from his family, who had all been killed in a bombing after he left. Just when everyone was starting to think the war was almost over.