Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘What do you think of Leka Gashi?’
‘Come again.’
‘Leka Gashi. The Albanian.’
‘Can’t say I know anyone by that name.’
But judging by Wallace’s darkening expression and the tone of his voice, Banks guessed that was not the case. He filed it away in his mind for future reference. ‘Is there something secret about the places Blaydon asks you to drive him?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t say that. It’s just his business, that’s all. You’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘OK, Frankie, I’ll make it easy. Did you drive Connor Clive Blaydon up to Eastvale last Sunday evening? And now I do want straight answers or I’ll take you in.’
‘Aye. I drove him. What of it?’
‘Where did you drive him?’
‘That poncy French restaurant he goes to by the market square. Bloody nightmare driving around there, it is.’
‘There’s no parking, I understand.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So where did you park?’
‘Back of the market square.’
‘How long?’
‘About half seven to just before eleven, when he rang me to pick him up. Why?’
‘Long time to be sitting there by yourself. Don’t you get bored? How do you pass the time? Do you read Proust, do The Times crossword or something?’
‘Give me a break. It’s the modern age, Mr Banks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m online. With my Galaxy pad. Got Netflix and everything.’
‘So you watch movies?’
‘Sometimes. Depends. Sometimes I can even get a live game of footie or rugby. Or I watch YouTube. Lots of stuff on there. Fights and all.’
‘And on Sunday?’
‘Downton Abbey. Seen it before, like, but it’s worth watching again.’ Frankie scratched his armpit. ‘I wouldn’t half mind giving that Lady Mary a good shag.’
Banks swallowed. ‘I’m sure she would appreciate it, Frankie. What about eating?’
Frankie leered. ‘That, too.’
‘I mean where did you go?’
‘Oh. One of those pubs in the market square. I don’t remember what it was called.’
‘The Bull? The Castle? The Queen’s Arms? The Red Lion?’
‘One of those.’
‘What did you have to eat?’
‘Steak and mushroom pie.’
‘And to drink?’
‘Coca-Cola. I never touch alcohol.’
‘Not even when you’re not driving?’
‘Never. I learned my lessons a long time ago.’
‘So apart from taking a meal break in one of the pubs on the market square, you sat in your car all evening?’
‘Until Mr Blaydon rang me.’
‘And then?’
‘Drove back to the restaurant, didn’t I? He was just around the corner. Would’ve been quicker if they’d walked to the car. Bloody pain in the arse getting in and out of that street, but what can I say, that’s my job.’
‘Was Mr Blaydon alone?’
‘No. He was with the Kerrigan brothers, Tommy and Timmy. Right couple of pillocks, those two, you ask me.’
‘I wouldn’t disagree,’ said Banks. ‘Did they get in the car with him?’
‘Aye. Expected me to drive them home.’
‘Where did you drop them off?’
‘At their place, just outside town. It was on our way, more or less.’
‘Anyone else with you?’
‘No.’
‘Had you picked the Kerrigans up on your way in?’
‘Nah. They’d driven in their own car, but they were too pissed to drive back, silly buggers. Right pair of girls’ blouses.’
‘Had Mr Blaydon had too much to drink?’
‘They were all a bit pissed, if you ask me. But the boss can hold his liquor.’
So much for the privileged nature of the chauffeur-passenger relationship. Banks decided to push it a bit further. ‘How did they behave towards one another in the car?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Were they chatting, laughing, telling jokes, that sort of thing?’
Wallace wagged a finger at him. ‘Don’t think I don’t know your game. You’re not going to get me to tell you anything that was said, if that’s what you’re after.’
Banks spread his hands. ‘But it wouldn’t do any harm to tell me the general mood of your passengers, would it?’
Wallace eyed Banks and chewed on his lower lip for a while. Finally, he said, ‘Well, if you must know, that Tommy Kerrigan was pissed off about something, but he’s always on edge, the creepy little queer.’
‘About what?’
‘Can’t tell because I don’t know, and wouldn’t if I did.’
‘Was he upset with Mr Blaydon?’
‘Not specifically.’
‘So what was it about?’
‘I told you. I don’t know. I can tell you one thing, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Somebody had given him a thrashing.’
Annie had told Banks that Florence, the maître d’ at Le Coq d’Or, had mentioned the cut over Tommy Kerrigan’s eye and his bruised cheek. ‘Any idea how that happened?’ Banks asked.
‘No. It wasn’t mentioned. Least not while I was around. That’s what he was pissed off about, though. Silly wee bugger gets himself into a fight with that temper of his and blames Mr Blaydon.’
‘Is that what he was doing, blaming your boss?’
‘Well, he was certainly complaining to him.’
‘About whom?’
‘No idea. Whoever did it.’
Banks sighed. He wasn’t going to get much further with Frankie Wallace. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ he asked.
‘I think I’ve already told you too much,’ said Wallace.
‘I shouldn’t worry about that if I were you. You haven’t really told me anything I’d need to follow up with Mr Blaydon.’
Wallace shrugged. ‘No skin off my nose. You done now?’
Banks stood up. ‘I think so.’ He paused at the door, Columbo-style. ‘Just one more thing, Frankie. You don’t happen to know anything about a bloke called Howard Stokes, do you?’
‘Stokes? No, I can’t say as I know the name. Why?’
‘Found dead on Hollyfield Lane a couple of days ago. Number twenty-six. Drug overdose.’
‘Happens a lot these days,’ said Wallace. ‘Nasty things, drugs. Never touch them, myself.’
‘Good for you,’ said Banks. ‘Only I understand the Kerrigans own the house he was found in, and your boss is heavily involved in the redevelopment plans for the area.’
‘Small world.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ said Banks, who had the distinct feeling that Wallace was lying about not knowing who Howard Stokes was as he closed the door and walked back to his car.
The Hotel Belgrade, where Faye Butler had said Keane stayed when he was in town, was easy to find. It occupied part of an elegant five-storey terrace near Fitzroy Square Garden, all white stucco facades behind black iron railings, ornate stonework, steps down to a basement level, heavy blue-panelled doors with frosted glass lunettes. The hotel had no kitchen or restaurant, only a small library bar in the basement, but just next door was a spacious bar and grill, very trendy judging by its popularity and the affluent and carefree demeanour of its clientele. The bar and grill had its own front entrance, as well as a door leading from the hotel’s cramped lobby.
Unlike larger hotel lobbies with their crowds and open spaces, The Belgrade wasn’t a place where Zelda felt she could hang around unnoticed, reading her book and keeping an eye out. Any unattached attractive woman with no reason for being there would probably be taken for a prostitute and asked to leave. But the bar and grill was perfect. Like the Italian restaurant it was spacious, dim and mostly crowded after work. It was casual enough that a person could sit and enjoy a couple of drinks without being pestered to
order food, though their steak frites was excellent, she discovered, and the windows opened on the street outside.
Zelda sat in a corner mulling over the interview with Danvers and Deborah Fletcher again. Danvers had phoned that morning and told her abruptly that she was no longer needed, and she could go home if she wanted. But Raymond had told her he wouldn’t be back for perhaps another week, and she didn’t feel like being up in Lyndgarth all alone with her mind full of the Tadićs, Keane, Hawkins and bad memories, so she decided to stay on for a while longer and see what she could find out.
Worried that someone might be following her, Zelda had begun taking steps. She had seen enough films to know that stepping on or off a tube train at the last moment often worked, as did entering a shop by one set of doors and leaving by another, or if all else failed, simply jumping in a taxi. Evasive action tipped off your tail, of course, but she didn’t care. As she couldn’t see who, or how many, were following her – if any were – she didn’t know whether she had been successful or not in losing them. But it didn’t really matter. At least, not yet.
She always restricted herself to two glasses of wine. She didn’t mind getting tipsy in the right company, but if she was going to do what she set out to do, she needed to keep a clear head. There had been a period when she had taken to drink and drugs to help numb her pain. That had worked for a while, but she started to hate the way it made her feel, so she stopped. Doing so hadn’t given her much trouble, especially as it was after she had escaped the dark world of forced sex and was starting to carve out an existence as a London pavement artist, a few months before she met Raymond. By the time she met him, she was sober and drug-free, apart from the occasional joint they shared. She only wished cigarettes were as easy to give up, but she had tried and she couldn’t. It was especially annoying because she couldn’t smoke in her hotel room, or in bars and cafes, places she wanted to sit and relax – like now, in the bar and grill next door to Hotel Belgrade. How wonderful it would be to sip her wine along with the occasional inhalation of cigarette smoke. She had tried those silly vape things, but they had lasted about as long as nicotine gum.
She did her best to be unnoticeable that evening, dressing down in baggy clothes, tying her hair back, going without make-up – even wearing glasses – and it seemed to work. As far as most people were concerned, she was probably just another young office worker on her way home after a hard day’s filing or whatever, stopping for a drink or two to help smooth out the tensions of the day, or give her courage to face the husband and kids. The bar staff probably assumed she was a guest at the hotel. At least, nobody had pestered her so far, except a fairly large group asking if she would mind moving to a smaller table so that they could all sit together.
The people at the table next to hers were getting noisier as they reached the third or fourth drink mark. And there was loud music, or at least a thumping bass beat that passed itself off as music. Zelda was starting to feel the onset of a headache.
She had finished her second drink, paid the bill and was about to leave when, all of a sudden, she saw someone whose presence seemed to dampen the sound, charge the atmosphere and make everything feel as if it were at the wrong end of a telescope.
The tall, burly figure walked through the door from the hotel reception. Though he was wearing a crisp white linen suit, bright green shirt and purple tie, and had traded his lank and greasy black hair for closely-cropped salt-and-pepper, there was no doubt in Zelda’s mind that she was looking at Goran Tadić, one of the two men who had bundled her into a car when she left the orphanage in Chi¸sina˘u.
The little park was a real haven, Gerry thought as she passed by the children’s playground with its swings, roundabout, slide and monkey bars, and took a winding path down to the side of the narrow beck, where she sat on a bench under the weeping willows. The beck moved swiftly, but it was shallow enough and the water took on the light brown beer colour of its bed. A couple of small wooden bridges, one green and one white, led over to the other side, a swathe of mixed trees and shrubbery, beyond which lay Cardigan Drive and the Hollyfield Estate. A row of stepping stones poked out of the water about halfway between the bridges, and Gerry imagined the children had fun using them. At that time of evening, though, in school term time, there was hardly anyone around. One or two solitary dog-walkers passed her, nodding a hello as they went, but that was about it. It was odd to think that Lisa Bartlett was assaulted so nearby not too long ago. But even the most pleasant of spots can take on a whole new aspect after dark.
Gerry experienced a sense of calm and peace she rarely felt in the town. Even though she could hear distant voices and the traffic on Cardigan Drive, she felt enveloped by nature, enchanted by birdsong and immersed in a green world of willow, ash and holly. She watched tits and finches flitting from branch to branch, saw magpies perched high in the trees and heard the loud cries of the crows as they flung themselves into the sky like harbingers of fast-falling night. The flower beds were a riot of colour. The May blossom had been and gone – coming earlier each year – though a few of the shrivelled blooms still littered the path and grass along with pussy willow and dried catkins.
Gerry had read an article in one of the papers recently about something called ‘forest bathing’, how it could relax you and remove the stress from your life. You just immerse yourself in a forest. The Japanese called it shinrin-yoku, and its beneficial effects apparently had something to do with the chemicals trees release into the air. Maybe she would try it. She was all for using her senses to soak up the atmosphere of the woods and leave her cares behind. Maybe the entire Homicide and Major Crimes Unit should come out and try it. She could just imagine Detective Superintendent Banks getting in touch with his inner forest.
She left the bench and tottered across the stepping stones, arms spread like a tightrope walker, and managed to make it to the other side without getting wet. There, she followed the path for another few yards through some dense shrubbery, after which she emerged, rather disappointingly, at Cardigan Drive, which she crossed by the traffic lights to get to Hollyfield Lane. The old estate looked more like a bomb site than a residential area, and pretty soon there would be no trace of it left whatsoever. It had been built on a simple grid pattern, with one main road, Hollyfield Lane, leading west, off which radiated the side streets. The Lane eventually petered out into weeds and wasteland, and beyond that, Gerry could see a lone yellow mechanical digger standing in a field, as if waiting impatiently to get to work.
She passed number twenty-six, the house where Howard Stokes’s body had been found. The CSIs clearly hadn’t finished there yet, as the place was still cordoned off by police tape and a uniformed constable stood on guard. He recognised Gerry and said hello as she passed.
Gerry started at the far end of Hollyfield Lane, by the waste ground, on the opposite side of the street, and made her way back slowly. Most of the houses were empty, but occasionally she spotted a pair of curtains, and she would knock at the door. No one she talked to admitted to recognising Samir or knowing anything about the man who lived at number twenty-six, except that he was old and scruffy and went about on a mobility scooter. But when she got a bit closer, to number forty-seven, a large woman in her late sixties with frizzy grey hair and a brightly-patterned muumuu dress, who clearly kept her eye on the street, invited her in. The walls of the living room were covered in paintings, most of them original works, as far as Gerry could tell. Watercolours, oils, montages of found objects. It was like a miniature art gallery.
‘I was out when one of your lot called the other day,’ she said, wedging herself into a well-worn armchair. ‘Staying with a friend in Carlisle. They left a note, like, and a contact number, but I haven’t got around to ringing it yet. I’ll be moving out after the weekend – got some nice sheltered accommodation near the river on the other side of town – so as you can see, I’ve got quite a bit of sorting out to do. I tell you, that Marie Kondo’s got nothing on me. I’ve already thanked three sacks
full of stuff for the joy they’ve given me and dropped them off at Age Concern. It can be quite heartbreaking sorting through a lifetime’s old photo albums and love letters, you know. Quite heartbreaking.’
‘I’m sure it can be,’ said Gerry, who didn’t have any love letters to sort through.
The woman, who introduced herself as Margery Cunningham, leaned forward to pat the chair opposite her. Gerry sat there.
‘When you’re old, people can’t imagine you ever being young,’ the woman went on. ‘But I had a life. Oh, my, did I have a life. I was quite a beauty in my day, you know.’ She pointed to one of the paintings, a watercolour of a nude reclining on a sofa. ‘I was a muse. That’s me when I was twenty-three,’ she said. ‘Hardly believe it now, would you?’
‘You were certainly very lovely,’ said Gerry.
‘You’re too kind. I was just like you. Only my hair wasn’t ginger, of course. But you’re a very pretty girl. You’d make a fine artist’s model.’
Gerry blushed. ‘Thank you.’
‘You have the look of those Pre-Raphaelite girls about you. A little sad, a little lost, maybe, but very strong and very beautiful. Sensual. Full of character. I should know. I used to live with an artist.’
Gerry groaned inwardly. She had often thought that if one more person compared her to a Pre-Raphaelite model she would hit them, but she wasn’t going to hit Margery Cunningham, of course. Ray Cabbot, Annie’s father, was always telling her the same thing, especially when he’d had a few drinks and wanted to paint her in the nude. In all fairness, though, he had produced a wonderful sketch of her, fully clothed, which she had framed and hung on the wall of her tiny flat. Annie usually brought him back to earth, while his girlfriend Zelda would sit there with an enigmatic smile on her face. Gerry didn’t get Zelda at all. Naturally, all the men were falling over themselves to be of service to her, even Banks, and Gerry knew something of her troubled history, but she had never been able to communicate with her on the few occasions they had met, finding her distant and unresponsive much of the time.
‘I was just wondering if you knew Mr Stokes at number twenty-six,’ Gerry said.