Author: Peter Robinson
Category: Other
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‘Interesting,’ said Banks. ‘Youthful high jinks, most likely, but let’s keep young Chris and Jason in mind as regards the drug connection. They might know a bit more about what went on in number twenty-six Hollyfield Lane than their parents can tell us.’
‘Right, guv,’ said Gerry.
‘Let’s move on. There are still no sightings of Samir in Eastvale before the Sunday he was killed, right, which – assuming he would have stayed the night if he’d come before – goes along with not finding traces of him on the mattress and pillow in the spare room. So what do we make of all this?’
‘That Stokes was cuckooed?’ Gerry suggested. ‘And that Samir just arrived at Hollyfield Lane on Sunday evening, for the first time, to sell drugs. That something went wrong.’
‘A replacement cuckoo, then?’ said Banks.
‘I think so,’ Gerry said. ‘The other boy had been gone about two or three weeks, according to Margery Cunningham. Though she did say her sense of time might be a bit off. It was a while, anyway. It probably took them that long to get everything organised and set up again.’
‘OK,’ said Banks. ‘So it was all change in the county line. Someone took it over.’
‘The Albanians?’ suggested Annie. ‘Along with Blaydon and the Kerrigans?’
‘Possibly. But was it a hostile takeover, or what? What happened to the other boy, the fair-haired one?’
‘Well,’ Annie replied, ‘both Howard Stokes and Samir are dead. Even if Stokes did die of a genuine heroin overdose, it still all points towards a drug war on some level. And I’d say that it is pretty hostile.’
‘So whoever got displaced might have been taking revenge by murdering Samir?’
‘Maybe,’ said Annie.
‘And it could even have been the fair-haired lad who did it?’
‘Again,’ said Annie, ‘I don’t think that’s beyond the bounds of possibility. Either him or his controller down in Leeds probably came up and did it. Remember, we have a bus driver who saw Samir get off a bus from Leeds, and they would have been in a position to know where he was going.’
‘Where does Blaydon fit in?’ Banks asked.
‘Blaydon doesn’t live in Leeds,’ said Annie, ‘and he has a respectable veneer. I still can’t really see him running a county line drug operation.’
‘Me, neither,’ said Banks. ‘But I can see him being somehow involved, doing a favour for someone who did, someone he wants to impress, who may be in overall charge of a number of county lines.’
‘The Albanians again?’
‘Very likely. Leka Gashi and his pals. And Blaydon was either trying to ingratiate himself, or he owed them one. We already know he has a history with Gashi going back to Corfu ten years ago, and their possible collusion in the murder of Blaydon’s business partner at the time, Norman Peel. I think we’d better have another chat with Mr Blaydon soon.’ Banks glanced over at Vic Manson, who seemed as if he had something to add. ‘Vic, you found Samir’s fingerprints in the house, didn’t you?’
Manson nodded. ‘Others, too. It’s kept us busy for quite a while. Stokes, naturally, and several unidentified sets.’
‘Any matches so far?’
‘A couple. I put them through IDENT1. One, so far, is a match with prints from the break-in at The Crown and Anchor last month, and another set are a match for a lad on file we arrested for dealing E around the college towards the end of last year.’
‘Which would seem to point towards the Stokes house being used as a county lines distribution centre,’ Banks said. ‘Good work, Vic. You, too, Jazz.’
‘There’s more,’ Vic Manson said.
Banks raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’
‘We still don’t know who did The Crown and Anchor break-in, and the prints don’t help us with that, but the lad who was arrested for dealing got a suspended sentence, and he’s still in the Eastvale area. Name of Cleary. Tyler Cleary.’
‘Got an address?’
‘Can’t say for sure if he’s still there.’
‘It’s a start. Gerry?’
‘I’ll find him and talk to him, guv.’
‘There’s something else that might interest you,’ Manson said.
‘Yes?’
‘I remember when we went in through the back, the evening the two lads found Howard Stokes . . .’
‘Right,’ said Banks.
‘Well, DC Masterson mentioned something about a boy who’d been seen hanging around the house before, and that he rode a red bicycle.’
‘That’s right,’ Gerry said. ‘That’s what Margery Cunningham told me, at any rate. The fair-haired lad rode around on a red bicycle. Most likely delivering drugs, filling the orders.’
‘Well, there’s a pile of rubbish in the backyard,’ Manson said, ‘and if I remember rightly, one of the items half-buried in it is a red bicycle frame. It’s a long shot. It might not be the one, but . . .’
‘Christ,’ said Annie. ‘I went in through the front the other night, and I had no reason to search the backyard. Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Banks. ‘Well spotted, Vic.’
Manson grinned. ‘It’s over in the lab right now. There’s a chance we’ll be able to get some dabs. Blondie might be in the system.’
‘Absolutely. And Gerry, maybe you can keep digging around Elmet Hill and Hollyfield, now that we know Samir was in the Stokes house for sure, however briefly.’
‘Right, guv,’ said Gerry.
Banks stood up. ‘One more thing. Annie, will you put someone on tracking all the CCTV available around the hill and Hollyfield areas for last Sunday evening? Get them on it ASAP, and gently remind them there’s overtime in the budget. I doubt there’ll be much of value, but now we know where to look and what to look for, we might find something interesting.’
When Zelda woke early the following morning, she had a splitting headache, and the bright sun shining through her hotel window didn’t help at all. She had forgotten to close the curtains. With an effort, she pushed herself out of bed and closed them. She found some paracetamol in her bag and swallowed three with a glass of water. Then she lay down again. She couldn’t go back to sleep, she knew that; she could only hope that the headache would fade and that she would stop feeling sorry for herself. If she was going to get any further in her endeavour, she was going to have to focus. Her reaction last night had been instinctive, she knew; the memories that rushed back on her seeing Goran Tadić had been a visceral tsunami. And so she had run. She hadn’t been able to help herself. Accept it. Failure. That was nothing new to her. But get over it. Get a grip.
What would Modesty Blaise have done? she asked herself. Modesty Blaise wouldn’t have let herself get into that situation to start with. And if she had, Willie would have come to the rescue. But Zelda didn’t have a Willie Garvin. She had a feeling there weren’t any Willie Garvins in the real world.
So she lay there as the paracetamol slowly took effect and did nothing for the rest of that day but lounge around in bed, watch television, drink a lot of water and order room service.
By seven o’clock she was feeling human again and ventured down to the hotel dining room for her evening meal. As she toyed with her stuffed chicken breast and sipped her mineral water, she began to think about a plan. She realised that she had wanted to find Keane because he could lead her to the Tadić brothers, whom she wanted to kill. One more than the other: Goran. Perhaps the loss of his brother would be suffering enough for Petar.
But she had no plan.
She took out her Moleskine and worked through the details. Writing it all down was a risk, but it was how she worked best; besides, she had no intention of letting anyone else read it, and she knew quite well that if she did go through with it, no body would ever be found, and there would be no investigation.
1. Do I have the right to take a human life?
Of course not. Nobody does. But I have done it before, that is true. I killed Darius, but I was fighting for survival, for escape. It doesn�
�t matter that I felt no remorse – I was too traumatised by my experiences at their hands for any feelings other than relief – it was still self-defence. And he was the one who started out armed. Darius ruined many lives, including mine, and the Tadić brothers have perhaps ruined many more. But does that justify me playing avenging angel and killing them? I don’t know the answer and may never know; it’s an argument I can have with myself for ever, and I’m certainly not going to ask anyone else for a judgement.
2. Can I carry it out?
I don’t know. Do I have the courage, the skill and the brains to go through with it? Goran Tadić is a formidable opponent, strong and ruthless. I’m weaker, and I’m alone. Whatever method I use, I will have to employ more stealth than strength. And if I don’t want to get caught, which I most certainly don’t, I’ll also need a good escape plan and a method that will leave no evidence linking me to the body. It’s a tall order, and I’m not sure I can carry it out.
3. How would I do it?
What method should I use? I have no access to poisons and know nothing about them. I might be able to get my hands on a gun through some old contacts down here, but a gun would be noisy and there would be too much forensic evidence. I don’t know how to use one, anyway, and would probably end up shooting myself in the foot! It would be nice if I could make it appear like an accident – push him under a tube train, for example, or a bus – but that would be difficult to orchestrate. He probably doesn’t use the tube, anyway. Besides, that would have to be done in public, and someone might see me. Knife crimes are common and kitchen knives are certainly easy enough to buy without arousing any suspicions. Maybe that’s the way to go. But first I will have to render him unconscious. My tranquillisers are probably not strong enough. It would take too many of them, and their presence would be hard to disguise. But I still have some of the flunitrazepam my French doctor prescribed before it was taken off the market there. That’s powerful stuff. It will work faster, too. Twenty to thirty minutes. I certainly don’t want to be in a hotel room with Goran Tadić for too long, waiting for him to fall asleep. Flunitrazepam is also soluble in water and alcohol, which is perfect.
4. Is there anyone I can get to help me?
NO.
When Zelda thought of the task ahead in those terms, she felt ready to give up. She ordered a coffee. The alternative would be to admit defeat and go to Alan and tell him where she had located Goran Tadić, who would almost certainly lead him to Keane. Let the police deal with the lot of them. But it still came down to trust. She might trust Alan, but he was one small cog in a large machine, and she didn’t trust that machine one bit. All it took was one man, a whisper in the right ear, and you wouldn’t see Petar and Goran for dust. Or Keane. And even if there wasn’t an informer in the ranks, which she very much doubted, then the evidence against them – if any was found – would be lost or destroyed, or a jury would be nobbled. Somehow or other, the course of justice would be perverted, and they would walk away scot-free.
So she had to regain her resolve, harden herself. There was only her, and she had to get close to Goran Tadić and do it herself.
Which led to one more important question:
5. Will he recognise me?
Because if he knew who she was and didn’t let on, she would be walking into a deathtrap.
In addition to various rental properties around town, the Kerrigan brothers also owned a nightclub and a video arcade on opposite sides of the market square. They had their offices in the club, which used to be known as the Bar None until they took it over and refurbished and rebranded it as The Vaults. It was an unimaginative name, perhaps, but they had brought in flashy new lighting and cocktails with cheeky names, like ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Between the Sheets’, and sold mostly imported bottled beer. They also employed a local DJ keen to make a name for himself on the national scene, and the kids flocked in. There wasn’t much else to do in Eastvale after ten o’clock, especially if you were too pissed to drive to Newcastle, Leeds or Manchester, where there were better clubs.
The Vaults was located under the shops across the cobbled square from the Queen’s Arms and the police station. Banks walked down the steps at ten o’clock that Friday night, when the place was just opening, flashed his warrant card at the bouncer and headed past the long bar with its array of coloured bottles and glasses, across the dance floor with its disco ball and revolving lights, to the offices at the back. He gave a shudder as he remembered the last time he had been there, when it was still called the Bar None, to a crime scene involving his then chief constable’s daughter, Emily Riddle, found dead from a batch of poisoned cocaine in the ladies’ toilet.
Fortunately, the music wasn’t too loud so early in the night, and the DJ hadn’t begun his fierce sampling routines, where a snatch of an old Elvis song might appear under the robotic rhythm and synth sounds of an electro dance number.
Once through the door, he could hardly hear the noise of the club at all. He knocked on the door marked PRIVATE and entered to find Timmy Kerrigan alone at his desk.
Kerrigan stood up. ‘Mr Banks. An unexpected pleasure. Please, sit down. Take a load off.’ He moved an office chair for Banks to sit on. Banks sat. ‘You should have told me you were coming.’
‘What would you have done, Timmy? Organised a brass band?’
Timmy Kerrigan just laughed. It came out as a giggle, the way most of his laughs did.
‘No Tommy tonight?’ Banks asked.
Kerrigan sat down again and swivelled his chair to face Banks. ‘He’s got other business, down in the big city. We’re not Siamese twins, you know. Not joined at the hip, or anywhere else, for that matter.’
‘You’ll have to do, then.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Timmy Kerrigan was the size of a rugby prop forward, but gone to fat. Short golden curls topped a plump round face with a disarmingly youthful peaches and cream complexion. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded and guarded. He must have been in his fifties, but he looked as if he had never had to shave. He was wearing his trademark navy pinstripe suit with the handkerchief poking out of the top pocket and a psychedelic waistcoat, quite dizzying, its buttons straining tight against his stomach.
His younger brother, Tommy, Banks remembered, was very different – long, thin, lugubrious, one milky eye from a badly thrown dart or an accident with a knitting needle, depending on whose version you believed, cropped dark hair and a gaunt, pockmarked face. They always made Banks think of Laurel and Hardy, though the resemblance was merely a matter of size and shape.
Though they looked to be a comic duo, and it was very tempting to laugh at them, you did so at some risk. They were smart businessmen, local celebrities in their way, and had bought up quite a bit of Eastvale over the years. They weren’t without political clout on the town council or in the planning offices. No wonder they had proved useful to Connor Clive Blaydon in his Elmet Centre development. If you wanted to develop anything around Eastvale, you could do a lot worse than have the Kerrigans on your side.
But behind the respectable facade, Banks knew, lay corruption, bribery, blackmail, intimidation. And it didn’t end there. Though there was no hard evidence, the Kerrigans were also suspected of having their hand in drugs and prostitution, and that, Banks thought, was where the strongest connection with Blaydon came in. And perhaps also the link with Gashi.
Kerrigan got to his feet again. ‘Pardon my manners. You just took me by surprise. Would you like a drink? Drop of single malt, perhaps?’
Banks saw the bottle of Scapa on the cocktail cabinet. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said.
Kerrigan poured them both a healthy measure and sat down again. Banks took a sip and sighed. ‘Lovely stuff,’ he said. ‘I’ll get to the point. I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder we had here a few days ago.’
‘That young lad found in the bin? Terrible business. I sometimes wonder what this town is coming to.’
‘And the suspicious death of Howard Stokes.’
&nb
sp; ‘Come again. I haven’t heard about that one.’
‘It wasn’t as big a headline. Old junkie. Died of an overdose.’
Kerrigan shrugged. ‘Must happen all the time.’
‘Thing is, he died in one of your houses.’
‘He did? Which one?’
‘Hollyfield Lane. Number twenty-six.’
‘But that whole area’s condemned. It’s been scheduled for redevelopment.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Banks. ‘But I’m sure you know too that there are still one or two people hanging on there, waiting for rehousing.’
‘Well, that’s terrible,’ said Kerrigan. ‘But I don’t see what it’s got to do with me? I’m not the bloody rent collector. Not any more. Anyone who’s left isn’t paying a penny. That’s the deal. Surely you can’t hold me responsible for the actions of my tenants?’
‘Not at all,’ said Banks. ‘I simply wondered if you knew about it.’
‘Well, no, I didn’t.’
Banks fished photos of Samir and Stokes from his briefcase and held them out to Kerrigan. ‘Recognise either of these faces?’
Kerrigan studied the photos one at a time and passed them back. ‘No, sorry.’
It was hard to tell with habitual liars like Kerrigan, but Banks got a feeling he wasn’t lying this time. ‘You were dining at Le Coq d’Or on Sunday evening with Connor Clive Blaydon, weren’t you?’
‘Yes. We had some business to discuss.’
‘The Elmet Centre?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. That was our main area of interest. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.’