Many Rivers to Cross, page 31
“That’s all they are, though,” said Banks. “A starting point. And they don’t lead anywhere.”
“What does?”
“Have you ever really wondered why anyone might have killed Samir? Gashi or his mob, for example? Or Blaydon? Or Frankie? What motive they might have?”
“We’ve been over all that,” Annie said. “Because he stole some coke or threatened to talk, and they wanted to use him as an example.”
“Or because he wanted out?” Gerry suggested. “And he knew too much?”
“But what could he possibly know?” Banks said. “Yes, he delivered and sold drugs for the Albanians. Maybe he stole a little—though Greg Janson doesn’t think so—but not enough to bring about his murder. Maybe he knew Gashi’s name. But so do we. It’s no secret. What good does that do us? And Gashi knows that, too. It doesn’t matter to him. Besides, the Albanians don’t just stab people, they gut them. Remember Lenny G? No, I can’t really see Samir being a threat to the county line. Remember, he also needed the gig to make money to bring his family over from Syria. The family he didn’t know were all dead.”
“And maybe pay off the Birmingham gang who helped smuggle him in, too,” Annie added.
“OK,” said Banks. “We don’t know much about them, it’s true. Is that another possible direction to look? His smugglers?”
“Well, I’d ask the same question that you just asked,” Annie said. “And that’s why?”
“Same answer. He knew too much? He ran away from them? He owed them a lot of money and refused to pay? These people have long memories and a long reach, you know.”
“But killing him would hardly get them their money back, would it?” said Gerry. “And how would they find him?”
“I don’t know how. But these organizations rely on terror, Gerry,” Banks said. “You know that. They don’t only rely on the threat of retribution, they rely on the reality of actually carrying it out. Painfully. Sometimes you just have to write off a debt to make a point—and remember, that’s what we thought the murder might be about right from the first. Boy in a wheelie bin. Example. Warning. It’s just a matter of to whom and about what.”
“So you think it’s this smuggling gang based in Birmingham?” said Annie.
“I’m saying it’s a possibility. That’s all. Maybe they traced him and tracked him down.”
“I suppose it’s just possible,” Annie agreed. “At a pinch.”
“But you don’t like it as a working theory?”
“Not really, no. It sounds both too pat and far-fetched at the same time.”
“I agree,” said Banks.
“Then . . . ?”
Banks pushed his plate aside. Already a couple of fat bluebottles seemed interested in the congealing mess. “I’m just casting around in the dark, Annie, trying to construct alternative scenarios. And I do have one I’m leaning very much toward, though we’ll need a lot more spadework first, and a bit of luck with the forensics.”
“What’s that?”
Banks rested back in his chair, careful not to overdo the tilt on the soft grass. “We’ve been working on the assumption that Samir was killed because of his connection with county lines, with drugs, or, as I suggested just now, with people smugglers.”
“So what’s wrong with that?” Annie asked.
“Nothing. But it hasn’t got us anywhere, has it?”
“I don’t know about that, guv,” Gerry said. “It’s thrown up Blaydon, the Kerrigans, Frankie Wallace, all sorts of villains.”
“But we don’t have any evidence against any of them.”
“We know from what Frankie told us that Blaydon was definitely involved,” said Annie.
“Maybe. At least we know he told us that he got a call from Blaydon asking him to bring Samir out of Hollyfield that night.”
“That shows that Blaydon was somehow involved, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. But we’ve suspected that all along, haven’t we, proof or not? Ever since my meeting with Joanna MacDonald, anyway.” The waitress came and collected their plates and empty glasses. “Coffee, anyone?” Banks asked. They all said yes and Banks went to the bar to order them. As he waited for service, he mulled over the ideas he’d been having as he drove to Eastvale and hung around in the park that morning, and the more he thought, the more he realized there might be something in them. But he—the entire team—would have to reboot and tread carefully.
The bartender said the waitress would deliver their coffees, and when Banks got back to the table he found Annie and Gerry deep in discussion about the traces of blood Stefan Nowak’s team had found in the park.
“Let’s hope it’s useful,” Banks said. “But in the meantime?”
“You said you had a new theory,” Gerry said. “Want to share it?”
“It’s not really new. I’ve just been concentrating a bit more on the actual physical facts we have to work with, rather than the vague relationships, the criminal organizations, the drugs and so on.”
“And what conclusions have you come to?” Annie asked.
“That all we know so far—if we believe Frankie Wallace, which I do—is that Samir was frightened in the house, and when Frankie came in, he bolted. He bolted in the direction of that park over there, and his body ended up in a wheelie bin on the East Side Estate about an hour later. What happened during that hour? We don’t know. What do we think might have happened? The CSIs found blood traces in the park, possibly human, possibly Samir’s. Jazz will be analyzing them. I think there’s a very good chance the blood is Samir’s, which means it was more than likely he was killed in the park he ran toward after Frankie entered the house. Well, if Frankie didn’t run after him, find him and kill him, then who did? Who else from the drug operation was in the neighborhood at the time? Blaydon? Gashi? The Kerrigans?”
Gerry looked puzzled. “Nobody, guv. Not as far as we know. Not in the park.”
“And is there any reason to think that there might have been someone else there we missed?”
“Not really,” Annie said. “I mean, why would there be? How could anyone know Samir would run there?”
“Exactly,” said Banks.
“I still don’t see what you’re getting at, guv,” said Gerry. “Are you suggesting that someone else from Blaydon’s or Gashi’s organization just happened to be loitering in the park at the right time and took the opportunity to kill Samir for some reason?”
“Not at all,” said Banks. “I’m saying the opposite, that it would be most unlikely. My point is that maybe what happened to Samir had nothing whatsoever to do with Blaydon, Gashi and whatever it was they were up to. Nothing to do with the Kerrigans and the Elmet Centre redevelopment. Nothing to do with any of it. That we’ve let ourselves be comprehensively sidetracked.”
“By whom?”
“Not by anyone but ourselves,” Banks answered. “We think we’ve been working on a crime with clear motivation and opportunity—drugs, organized crime—but what if the whole thing was completely unplanned and unexpected? What if Samir was just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if the crime had nothing to do with the other stuff, but everything to do with the park?”
“And you’re assuming he was killed in the park?” said Annie.
“Yes. As I said, I don’t think there’s much doubt that the blood Stefan’s team has found is his, do you? We’ll have to wait for analysis, of course, but I’d bet next month’s salary on it.”
“And?”
“Well, who do you think might have been likely to be in the park when Samir ran there? I think it might not be a bad idea to go and have another word with Mr. Neighborhood Watch, don’t you?”
GRANVILLE MYERS led Banks and Annie through the bright kitchen to the paved patio area in the garden at the back, where four white fold-up chairs were arranged around a circular table with a brightly striped umbrella, under the shade of an overhanging willow.
The weather was warm enough for Banks to remove his jacket and hang it over the back of the chair. He noticed an outdoor grill in the corner by the door, which reminded him that he had been planning on buying one for a couple of years now but hadn’t got around to it. He thought he could probably master the basics of grilling a burger or steak; it would be something quick and easy he could make after a long day at work, leaving only a minimum of washing up. Spring seemed to have morphed into summer so much more quickly than usual this year, and he realized his mind was still stuck in winter. Time to get a move on and catch up with the seasons.
“I can’t imagine what it is you want to talk to me about,” Myers said. “I told the other young lady everything I know. Which is nothing.” In front of him on the table were a half-finished glass of orange juice and an open paperback copy of the latest Lee Child.
“Just a few minor details, if that’s all right with you?” Banks said.
“I don’t suppose I have much choice.”
“There’s always a choice, sir,” Annie said. “And it’s always best to make the right one.”
Myers scowled at her. “Thank you for that gem of wisdom. What is it you want to know?”
Banks gave Annie a slightly annoyed glance, hoping to indicate that she was getting Myers’s back up too much too soon. True, he seemed a puffed-up, self-important pillock, and he did look a lot like Nigel Farage, but there were ways of treating such people in an interview. Still, Annie had been angry and sarcastic a lot lately. Banks wondered if it had anything to do with Ray and Zelda. Best leave that for the moment, he decided.
“It’s about Sunday night,” he said. “The night of the murder.”
“But I went over that with—”
“Yes, I know you told DC Masterson all you knew, but sometimes we find it’s useful to go over old ground with fresh eyes, so to speak. As you may know, we’ve been working in the park at the bottom of Elmet Hill for the past couple of days.”
“A neighbor told me,” Myers said. “I can’t imagine why.”
“I was wondering if you knew that the place was a hangout for marijuana smokers, casual sexual liaisons and other such things?”
“What? The park? That’s ridiculous. It’s not anyone from around here, I can assure you.”
“Who else, then?”
“Hollyfield.”
“Come on, there’s hardly anyone left there, Mr. Myers. No, I think your days of blaming every local evil on the Hollyfield Estate are just about over, especially now that Howard Stokes is dead.”
“What are you suggesting? That’s the old man who was found dead over there of a heroin overdose, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Howard Stokes. He lived on Hollyfield Lane for many years. Lived a perfectly normal life.”
“You can’t tell me that’s a normal life. A drug addict. Not unless you’re a bloody Guardian reader and you think everything most decent folk view as abnormal is normal, and vice versa.”
“As it happens, I do read the Guardian, Mr. Myers, but that’s by the by. A Mail man, yourself, are you?”
“Telegraph,” Myers grunted.
“Admirable. The thinking man’s Mail. Anyway, what concerns me now is the extent of the after-hours activity in the park and what you, as head of the local Neighborhood Watch, might be able to tell me about it.”
“I told you, I know nothing about it. You surely don’t think I’ve been down there smoking marijuana, do you?”
Banks laughed. “I very much doubt it. But it strikes me that you might have known what the park was being used for, and you and your colleagues might have made the occasional sweep of the area, just to discourage it. Your son, Chris, for example, was reprimanded for drugs just last year.”
“Nothing came of that,” said Myers. “Chris was completely exonerated. He had no drugs in his possession whatsoever.”
“No, but he was in a place where drugs were being consumed.”
“No charges were brought. You’ve no right to bring that up. Chris has no criminal record. All mention of what happened should be expunged from your records.”
Banks thanked his lucky stars for the old incident sheets and glanced at Annie. “Let’s move on, then,” he said. “You are in charge of the Neighborhood Watch, so it can hardly be unusual to assume that you have some idea of what’s going on in the neighborhood, can it? I’m simply asking for the benefit of your expertise. Doesn’t that seem reasonable?”
“On the surface of it, naturally it does,” Myers blustered. “But in reality, I’m sure you know as well I do that our brief stops at Cardigan Drive. We don’t police Hollyfield.”
“Nobody does,” said Banks.
“Well, you know what they say. Physician, heal thyself.”
Banks sighed. “If only it were that easy. We don’t have the resources. That’s why we rely on people like you to help us. People who have some sense of pride in their neighborhoods, people who value the safety and security of their families and neighbors. We know we’re falling way short.”
Myers seemed to puff himself up. “Well . . . er . . . as you put it like that, yes, we are certainly aware of the constrictions the police work under, and we’re more than happy to help. After all, it means we’re helping ourselves, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” said Banks. “Glad you see it that way.”
“But it doesn’t alter the fact that I’m still afraid I don’t know anything. We never did patrol Hollyfield, and these days there seems even less point, as there’s hardly anyone left living there.”
“But did you or any of your fellow watchers patrol the park that Sunday night? Did you see Samir suddenly appear there, and in the confusion of the moment, stab him?”
“That’s absurd!” said Myers. “Now you’re accusing me of murder.” He got up. “I want my solicitor. Immediately.”
“Calm down, Mr. Myers,” said Banks. “Keep your hair on. I’m merely asking you a question: did you or any of your colleagues kill Samir Boulad?”
Myers eased himself back into his chair. “Then the answer’s obvious. No. But I suppose that’s what you’d expect me to say, whether I’m guilty or innocent. And I can assure you that I’m innocent.”
Banks shrugged. “I’ve known plenty of murderers who like to confess.”
“I am not a murderer. And for your information, there was no one patrolling the park that night.”
“Are you certain about that?”
“Of course I am.”
At that moment a tall, athletic boy with golden curls flopping over his pasty face came through the back gate; he stopped dead when he saw his father sitting with two strangers. Myers looked as if this new presence was the last thing he wanted.
“Uh, sorry,” said the boy, making to sidle past them and go into the kitchen.
Banks stood up. “You must be Christopher Myers?”
Chris shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “Uh, yeah, that’s right.”
Banks introduced himself and Annie. “Why don’t you join us for a minute?” he said. “There’s a free chair.”
“Er, I think I’d better . . . you know . . .”
“Please, sit down,” said Banks, a steelier edge to his voice. “This won’t take long.”
Chris eased himself onto the chair, which was far too small for him. He stretched his long legs out to one side.
“We were just talking about the park,” Banks went on. “You might have noticed some activity down there today?”
“Yeah. I wondered what was going on.”
“We’ve got new information,” said Banks. “We’ve got the CSIs and forensic officers going through the place with fine-tooth combs.”
“Oh, right.”
“Ever been down there, Christopher?”
“Chris. Everyone calls me Chris. The park? Well, sure. I mean, I grew up here. We used to go and play on the swings and stuff.”
“I mean more recently.”
“I’ve passed through it, you know, but it’s not somewhere I’d hang out.”
“Why’s that?”
Chris shrugged. “Dunno. Just isn’t, that’s all.”
“Do you pass through it on your way to number twenty-six Hollyfield Lane to buy your drugs?”
“My what?”
“Don’t listen to him, son,” said Myers.
“Are you sure you don’t sneak down to the park for the occasional spliff?”
“Mr. Banks!” It was Granville Myers again, half-standing. “That’s a bit much, isn’t it? First you accuse me, and now you accuse my son.”
“I wasn’t aware I was accusing him of anything except smoking an occasional joint,” said Banks. “That’s illegal, but we tend to overlook it most of the time.”
“You’re insinuating that Chris was in the park on Sunday. That he killed this Arab boy.”
Chris looked confused. “What’s going on, Dad?” he asked. “Who’s accusing who of what?”
“Were you?” Banks asked. “In the park when Samir was killed?”
“Of course not,” Chris said.
“No harm in asking,” said Banks. “Anyway, we’ve come up with a lot of interesting new trace evidence from the park, so we’ll know the truth soon enough.”
“Evidence of what?” Chris asked.
“I’m afraid I can’t say at the moment. Just that it puts a whole new complexion on things, and it may well send the investigation spinning off in a whole different direction.”
“Well, that’s great,” said Chris, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He was twitchy now, eager to leave his chair. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow morning. I’d better . . . you know . . .”
“Right. Sorry to have kept you,” said Banks.
Chris got up and walked toward the kitchen door. “Good luck,” Banks called after him.
Chris half-turned. “What with?”
“The exam.”
