Many Rivers to Cross, page 35
“Samir. No. That was a different thing altogether. A different set of unfortunate circumstances. Coincidences, if you like. Of course, the culprits denied it at first, but we got it out of them. We found both their fingerprints matched some on the wheelie bin Samir was dumped in. First Chris Myers, the one who didn’t actually stab Samir, cracked and told us his mate Jason Bartlett did it. Then when we confronted Bartlett with the DNA evidence and his friend’s statement, he broke down and confessed. All above board. Solicitors present, and all. And both are eighteen, so they’ll be facing adult court and adult prison time.”
“That’s sad.”
“It is. It’s a great waste. But it’s not half as fucking sad as what happened to Samir. Pardon my French.”
Joanna smiled and patted his arm. “You’re forgiven.”
“It seems Bartlett had taken to carrying a knife ever since his sister was attacked and sexually assaulted on her way home from a school dance over a month ago. Just a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade, but it was long enough and sharp enough to kill Samir. He says he threw it in the river later. There’s not much chance of our finding it. According to his head teacher, Jason Bartlett has got some rather nasty racist views. I read an article he wanted to publish in the school magazine, saw the websites he visits, and it’s true. The usual diatribe against immigrants, especially Muslims and everyone with a darker skin color than himself. We also found some nasty white supremacy sites bookmarked in his Internet browsing history. Anyway, it seemed he somehow half-convinced his sister that she’d been attacked by a dark-skinned man, even though she maintained at first, and later on, that she hadn’t seen her attacker, not even his hand.”
“So he was already wound up and jumpy about immigrants?”
“Yes. Just when you start to think that this generation has got beyond the racism of your own, someone like Bartlett comes along.”
“It’ll always be around. You know that. What happened on the night of the murder?”
“Two worlds collided. It was Samir’s first time in Eastvale as a line manager for Gashi. The poor kid had been through hell. I’m not saying he didn’t know he was doing wrong, but these people groomed him and exploited him. So he came up here on the bus with a backpack full of heroin and crack cocaine and headed straight for Stokes’s house. Unfortunately, when he got there, Stokes was dead from an overdose. We think it was either accidental or self-administered, and we may never know which. Anyway, Samir freaked and rang Gashi, who happened to be down in London on business at the time. Gashi phoned Blaydon, who was dining nearby at Le Coq d’Or, and asked him for a favor.”
“Lucky him,” said Joanna. “It’s a really great restaurant.”
“You’ve eaten there?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“The price, for a start.”
“Let’s just say I had a generous boyfriend.”
“Had?”
She thumped him playfully and picked up her glass. “Get back to your story. Blaydon was having dinner at Le Coq d’Or.”
“With the Kerrigans, who are in cahoots with him on the Elmet Centre development, as you know. Anyway, Gashi asked Blaydon to drive to Eastvale—he didn’t know he was already there—and pick up Samir, who was still upset at finding Stokes dead, and drive him back to Leeds. Blaydon was having too much fun eating his snails and frog’s legs, so he dispatched his driver, Frankie Wallace, to go pick up Samir.”
“You know, you’re showing your ignorance as well as your prejudice when it comes to French food. It’s a racial stereotype. They don’t have—”
“Frog’s legs or snails at Le Coq d’Or. I know. Marcel McGuigan told me. It was just a figure of speech.”
“You talked to Marcel McGuigan?”
“Had to do. He was Blaydon’s alibi.”
“But he’s . . . I mean, he’s a foodie GOD. Have you any idea what he can do with sweetbreads?”
“I don’t, actually. I’m not that much into puddings. But I know about McGuigan. Michelin stars and all that. He’s really quite a nice bloke. No pretensions, down to earth. By the way, he offered me a free dinner any time I want. With a guest of my choice.”
Joanna narrowed her eyes. “That’s playing dirty. If you think . . .”
“I told him no, I couldn’t possibly. It might be misconstrued.”
“You’re right, I suppose.”
Banks smiled. “I could always say I’ve changed my mind . . .”
“Don’t hold your breath. Back to the night of the murder.”
Banks drank some more beer and went on. Françoise Hardy gave way to the late great Scott Walker singing “Joanna.”
Joanna MacDonald’s ears perked up on hearing her name. One or two people who knew who she was were looking toward her with silly grins on their faces. “Did you do that to embarrass me?” she whispered at Banks.
“Me? I have no control over Cyril’s playlists,” Banks said. “Don’t you know the song?”
“No.”
“It’s Scott Walker.”
“Just go on with your story.”
“Right. Frankie entered through the back door,” Banks went on. “He’s an ex-boxer and can look like a terrifying figure with all his scar tissue and so on, especially to a young lad, I should imagine. Anyway, Samir got scared and ran off through the front door and turned right, toward the park at the bottom of Elmet Hill. That was the last we could find out about his movements until we interviewed Chris Myers and Jason Bartlett. It turns out they’re the best of friends, and they both enjoy the occasional joint, so they’d got in the habit of heading down to the park after dark and smoking up in the bushes. There was never anyone around in the park at that time, they said, and they were pretty well hidden from the main path and Cardigan Drive. After that, it all happened so fast, Chris Myers told us. Samir came bursting from the trees and startled them. Without thinking, Jason just reacted, got out his knife and lunged. He might have thought Samir was carrying a weapon, but there’s no evidence of that, despite what he says. He was stoned, too, so his senses were befuddled. And it was dark. He saw a dark-skinned guy, and with all that was going around in his head at the time, he just lashed out. Sadly, he did it with a very sharp knife and managed to puncture Samir’s aorta.”
“Christ,” said Joanna. “What a story. I suppose they panicked then?”
“That’s right. They couldn’t revive Samir, and after a while they figured out he was dead. They couldn’t very well leave him there, either. Much too close to home. It was Chris’s idea, apparently, to move him, so he got his car and parked it in a lay-by on Cardigan Drive right next to the bushes. They got Samir in the boot without anyone seeing and thought it would be best to dump him on the East Side Estate, where they thought the police would expect to find someone like him.”
“A drug dealer? Did they know him? Did they buy drugs from him?”
“No. They didn’t know what he was doing in Eastvale. The county lines operation didn’t deal in marijuana. Not enough profit in it, I suppose. The line dealt more addictive products—coke, crack, heroin. And Samir had just arrived in Eastvale that evening to take Greg Janson’s place. They didn’t know him from Adam. Chris Myers told us eventually that they bought the pot from a bloke in a pub near the college.” Banks shrugged. “Maybe that’s true. Anyway, I suppose it’s lucky for us that they forgot about the roaches and possible bloodstains in their panic. But then there was no reason they would expect us to search the park if Samir’s body was found on the East Side Estate. And we didn’t. Not for quite a while. We were lucky the traces were still there. They had no idea of Samir’s connection with Hollyfield, that it would eventually come out and lead us to the park. They had no idea where or what he was running from. We wouldn’t have had, either, if Frankie Wallace hadn’t told us he saw Samir running in that direction.”
“Why did he tell you?”
“Working for Blaydon and Gashi was getting a bit too rich for Frankie’s blood. He seemed pretty disgusted by the way things were going. He’s not a hardened criminal, really, just an old-fashioned minder. I’m not saying he wouldn’t buy something he knew fell off the back of a lorry, maybe even threaten someone who caused a problem, but I think he’s the sort of bloke with his own moral code, his own boundaries. The heavy drugs and the underage girls and the violence for its own sake just weren’t his scene. At the bottom of it all, he’s quite a moralist, is our Frankie. Must be that old Scottish Presbyterian influence.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Yes. It was Frankie who put me on to Jason and Chris. Or at least the idea that Samir might have been killed in the park by someone up to no good, someone who had nothing to do with the county lines. Then we found out about Jason’s racism, the drug use, then the forensic evidence in the park. I pushed Jason hard and set Gerry to keep an eye on his movements after I left. Naturally, he phoned his pal and they had a confab. That was when we decided to haul them in. The rest was pretty easy.”
“What are you two up to?” It was Annie, suddenly standing by the table.
“Bring us a couple more drinks and I’ll tell you,” said Banks.
“Righty-ho.” Annie wandered off to the bar, not entirely steady on her feet. Luckily, they were all taking taxis home tonight.
“About what I said earlier,” Banks said while Annie waited at the bar. “You know, about the restaurant and all.”
“Yes.”
She clearly wasn’t going to help him. Banks felt his tongue growing too big for his mouth. Annie was paying for the drinks now. “Well, I mean, would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Like to have dinner with me at Le Coq d’Or.”
“I’d love to,” said Joanna.
“You would? I mean, I don’t think I can honestly take a free meal there, but if I start saving up now, I might be able to make a reservation before Christmas.”
16
THERE WERE NO CARS PARKED OUTSIDE CONNOR CLIVE Blaydon’s villa when Banks and Gerry turned up there after the DNA tests had come up positive and Jason Bartlett had been charged with the murder of Samir Boulad. Annie was still working with the CPS on preparing the case for prosecution, along with that of Chris Myers as accessory. Gerry was quite happy to get out of the squad room for a road trip. Banks wondered how Blaydon managed without Frankie Wallace to drive him around. Maybe he’d hired a new chauffeur.
The judge had refused to grant a search warrant for Blaydon’s property on the scant evidence the police had presented, dismissing it as hearsay and circumstantial. Banks suspected there was more to it than that—perhaps the occasional golf game, tips on the property market—but he held his tongue. Even without a search warrant, they had one or two things they wanted to discuss in more detail with Blaydon.
They wouldn’t have expected to find any incriminating evidence at his house, anyway. Blaydon would be a bigger fool than Banks thought he was if he hadn’t quickly got rid of Samir’s backpack and jacket after Frankie had handed them over. Gashi would have wanted his drugs back, of course, and Blaydon would probably have burned the jacket. At best they might find a few grams of white powder left over from a party, but that was a charge a man like Blaydon could beat in his sleep with the lawyers he could afford.
The fountain seemed to have dried up, or someone had turned it off at the mains. A dead bird floated among fallen leaves in the brackish water that remained. It had been windy and raining just that morning, but now nothing stirred in the humid air. The topiaries looked frightening and made Banks think of Stephen King’s Overlook Hotel in The Shining, where the trimmed shapes came to life. Banks felt a trickle of sweat down his back as he walked to the front door and rang the bell. Nobody answered. As far as he could tell, all was silent inside. He touched the door and was surprised when it swung slowly open on its hinges. He glanced at Gerry, went into the hallway and called out Blaydon’s name. Nobody answered. Not even Roberts, the butler. His voice echoed in the cavernous space.
They crossed the entrance hall, footsteps echoing, and checked the office. Empty. The window was open a few inches, so Blaydon surely couldn’t be very far away. Thinking that maybe on a day like today he might be lounging by the pool with his headphones on, or taking a dip to cool himself off, they followed the maze of the corridors to the glassed-in pool area. Banks wasn’t sure at what point he noticed that the chlorine smell was mixed with something less easily defined, sweet yet metallic. Gerry was the first to mention it. “What’s that funny smell?”
When they got to the pool, Banks walked through the doorway.
Blaydon was in the water, all right. At least, Banks assumed it was Blaydon. It was hard to tell as the water was tinged red and whatever floated there lay facedown, naked, with his arms stretched out at the sides like a cross. Underneath him spread what looked like a tangle of tentacles, as if they belonged to an octopus or a giant squid. A Hockney swimming pool painted by Francis Bacon.
Banks had just realized that the tentacles were Blaydon’s intestines when he remembered Gerry, and turned to stop her before she got too close. But he was too late. A swarm of flies that had somehow got in rose from the body at the sound of her footsteps echoing on the tiles. Gerry froze in the doorway, turned white and doubled over, vomiting against the wall.
“I’m all right, guv,” she protested, waving Banks away, obviously embarrassed, when he tried to comfort her. “It’s just the shock, that’s all. And that smell.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Maybe a glass of water.”
There was a wet bar beside the pool. Banks poured some tap water into a glass. Gerry drank it and took out a handkerchief to wipe her lips. “That’s better.”
“Look.” Banks pointed across the pool.
They hadn’t noticed in the initial shock of seeing Blaydon’s floating body, but the butler Roberts lay slumped against the Plexiglas, down which ran a long, ugly smear of red. Roberts hadn’t been disfigured, by the looks of him, simply shot or stabbed. Whatever had happened, he was every bit as dead as his boss.
Banks reached for his mobile.
“Christ, what an abattoir,” said Gerry. “What could he have done to deserve this?”
Banks glanced at her. “Deserve? Nothing, I should imagine. With people like Gashi’s lot, the punishment is usually way out of proportion to any presumed sin.”
“But he was in with them.”
“To a point,” Banks said. “Remember, I always said Blaydon was trying to play with the big boys. Out of his league. I even warned him about it the first time we met.”
“He obviously didn’t listen.”
“No. It doesn’t matter what he did, why they did it. For once motive isn’t really an issue. Maybe they thought he’d ripped them off? I’m sure he lost their laundered money on investments in the Elmet Centre development. Maybe they thought he’d stolen drugs from them, too, or was a police informer? Whatever it was, they clearly thought he had crossed or betrayed them in some way, and they wanted to make a point.”
“They’ve certainly done that.”
Banks remembered acting like an old mate the last time he had seen Blaydon alive, patting him on the shoulder while the man in the suit and sunglasses was watching them from across the hall. Had his been the touch of Judas, the mark of death? Had they made the assumption that Blaydon was a police informer? Was he partly responsible for what had happened here?
But Banks brushed such wild and pointless thoughts aside. Blaydon had enjoyed flirting with the dark side, and it had swallowed him whole. Simple as that. Maybe they would catch the men who had done this, and maybe they wouldn’t. If the killers had any sense, they would be back in Albania by now.
“Come on.” Banks took Gerry gently by the arm and led her back outside, into the fresh air. She still seemed to be walking in a daze, and he wished he had a hip flask of whisky or brandy or something to put more of a spring in her step. There was sure to be some in the house, but it was best not to disturb anything more than he had done already.
They sat in silence on the parapet of the still fountain; only the birds singing in the trees that ringed the estate made any sounds. Banks phoned in for the full treatment—CSIs, uniformed officers, police surgeon, photographer, the lot—and before long he could hear the sounds of the emergency vehicles, distant at first, then getting louder and louder as they approached.
RAYMOND’S FLIGHT was late, and it had started to rain again by the time Zelda had negotiated their way out of Newcastle Airport. Leeds and Bradford would have been marginally closer, but the connection time with the flight from LA didn’t work out. So Newcastle it was.
They were soon heading south on the A1, past the Metro Centre, over the Tyne with its famous bridges and the Sage on its south bank in Gateshead. Then on past Team Valley and the Angel of the North, which Raymond said he had always thought looked like a rusty Spitfire standing on its tail.
But Raymond was tired after his long journey, and after a while of excited chat and numerous mentions of how glad he was to be back with Zelda, he drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat and Zelda concentrated on the road through the hypnotic rhythm of the windscreen wipers.
The rain was coming down quite heavily by the time they got back to the cottage above Lyndgarth, but inside it was still cozy and dry. While Raymond unpacked, Zelda put the kettle on and made a pot of tea, chatting about her time in London—the Picasso exhibition she had never seen, the theater she had never attended, the book shopping she had never done. In his turn, Raymond told her about the parties and the meetings with fellow artists and gallery owners in New York and Los Angeles, and gave her as a present a tiny sketch by a famous artist he knew she admired.
Zelda made Raymond a bacon butty—his favorite snack, and something he hadn’t been able to find in America. After that, they sat and sipped tea and talked until Raymond could no longer keep his eyes open.
While he slept, Zelda sat at the kitchen window with her laptop, half watching the rain running down the glass and distorting the rough moorland landscape beyond. She had certainly felt the isolation and wildness of the moors over the few days she had been alone there, after returning from Banks’s cottage. But she had adapted, got used to it again, and she thought she could be happy there.
