‘I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,’ said Blaydon. ‘I made my way up the hard way. Through sheer hard slog. You’re just like all the rest. You slag off entrepreneurs like me, but where would you be without us? Still living in fucking caves, that’s where.’
‘We already know a bit about how you made your way up in the world,’ said Banks. ‘But that’s not what we’re interested in.’
‘I’m still trying to work out what you are interested in. Is this a fishing expedition of some kind? If so, should I have my solicitor present?’
‘What might we be fishing for?’ Annie asked.
‘Don’t ask me.’
Banks took out Peter Darby’s photographic rendering of the victim from his briefcase and showed it to Blaydon. ‘Ever seen this lad?’
Blaydon squinted at the photo and turned back to Banks. ‘No, I can’t say as I have. Arab kid, is he?’
‘We don’t know where he’s from.’ Banks put the photo away. ‘Do you know a man called George Fanthorpe?’ he asked. ‘Farmer Fanthorpe?’
‘Yes,’ Blaydon said after a slight hesitation. ‘We did business occasionally. But it was some time ago. I heard he was sent to prison.’
‘That’s right. He’ll be away for a while. What sort of business did you do?’
‘Nothing criminal, if that’s what you’re thinking. I had some projects he was interested in investing in. I bought shares in a couple of racehorses he trained. That sort of thing.’
‘Pretty pally, were you?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. It was a business relationship. Maybe the occasional drink. Besides, what does George Fanthorpe have to do with anything?’
‘The Farmer had his dirty little fingers in all kinds of pies,’ Banks went on. ‘I should know. I was the one who put him away. I was just wondering where your interests coincided.’
‘I’ve had about enough of this,’ said Blaydon, pushing his chair back from the desk.
Banks sipped some coffee. It was rich and strong. ‘Just a few more questions, sir, then we’ll get out of your hair.’
Blaydon stayed put. ‘Well, hurry up about it, then.’ He glanced at his watch. A Rolex, Banks noticed. ‘Five more minutes and I’m calling my solicitor.’
‘Of course. What do you know about pop-up brothels?’
Blaydon laughed. ‘About what?’
‘Pop-up brothels. I don’t see what’s so funny.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Blaydon. ‘I just had this image of opening a book and having a cartoon tenement building pop up with ladies of the night in garter belts and frilly underwear waving from the windows.’
‘Own many tenements, do you?’ Annie asked.
‘Oh, come on. It was a joke. Anyway, what’s a pop-up brothel?’
‘Exactly what it sounds like,’ said Banks. ‘It’s a brothel that pops up in a vacant house or building for a limited period of time. The people who operate them use online escort agencies and social media to get the word out to those in the know. They can be quite sophisticated.’
‘Well, I never. It takes all sorts.’
‘I think you’ll agree,’ Annie said, ‘that a man in your business is in a pretty good position to profit from something like that. All those empty properties just sitting there.’
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I—’
‘Stop playing games,’ said Banks. ‘Ever heard of a man called Leka Gashi?’
‘I can’t say as I have.’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work. An Albanian gangster known to be involved in the drug trade.’
‘What makes you think I would know someone like that?’
‘It’s our business to know these things,’ said Banks.
‘Have you been watching me?’
‘What about that apartment building in Scarborough?’
‘What building?’
‘Seaview Court, or whatever it was called.’
‘Let me get this straight. You’re trying to tell me that Seaview Court is a pop-up brothel?’
‘Was,’ said Banks.
‘Do you have any proof of that?’
‘You know quite well that we don’t. Someone must have tipped you off.’
Blaydon spread his hands. ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t micromanage every property on my books. There are far too many for that. Are we finished here?’
Banks glanced at Annie and they both stood up. Before they left, Banks leaned forward and rested his palms on Blaydon’s desk. ‘One thing you might bear in mind,’ he said, ‘is that pop-up brothels quite often involve girls trafficked from Eastern Europe and elsewhere, mostly against their will. They also bring you into contact with people like Gashi, who can be very dangerous and unpredictable when the chips are down. Their warnings if you step out of line tend to be very swift and very final.’
‘You’re telling me this, why?’
‘I’m telling because you might think you’re a very clever man and a big player in their game, but in reality you’re not. You’re not a match for these people, and you could get yourself very badly hurt, or even killed, if you continue playing at their table. To put it simply, they eat people like you for breakfast.’
Blaydon stood. He wasn’t very tall, Banks noticed, and quite slight in build, but he possessed a kind of wired, nervous energy. ‘Thank you for your concern, Superintendent,’ he said, then bowed towards Annie. ‘And DI Cabbot, too, of course. I will certainly bear what you said in mind should I find myself approached by any of the people you mention.’
‘You do that, Mr Blaydon,’ said Banks. ‘And there’s no need to bother Jeeves. We’ll find our own way out.’
The pub was separated from the houses on both sides by narrow alleys that led through to the next street, and it stood a short distance back from the pavement. There were a few benches and wooden tables with umbrellas out front, for those who wished to enjoy their drinks and have a smoke in the sunlight. By the doors, a blackboard listed the specials of the day. The sagging roof and weathered beams that framed the whitewashed facade showed the pub’s age, and colourful hanging baskets and window-boxes gave it a welcoming atmosphere. As it happened, the inside was just as pleasant, with its light pine tables, brass and polished surfaces.
The young barman smiled as Zelda approached the bar and picked up a menu. She asked him for a small glass of Pinot Grigio while she studied it. By the time he delivered her drink, she had decided on the grilled sole and Greek salad. By the way he blushed when he handed her the drink, Zelda could tell he was in love with her already. Well, perhaps not love. She waited at the bar and sipped her wine while he passed her order on to the kitchen. He seemed surprised to see her still standing there when he returned and asked where she wanted to sit. There were plenty of empty tables, and she pointed to one behind her, in his direct view.
‘I notice there’s been a fire,’ she said, gesturing over her shoulder. ‘Just up the street there.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Terrible business. Poor fellow died.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I wouldn’t say I knew him, but he came in here often enough to be called a regular.’ He pointed to a small corner table. ‘That’s where he used to sit. Mr Hawkins. Terrible business.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nobody knows. Rumour has it there was a chip-pan fire, but...’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Like I said, I didn’t know him well, but I can’t see it.’
‘He didn’t like chips?’
The barman laughed. ‘It’s not that, though I can’t say he ever ordered any. No. He just wasn’t much of a drinker.’
‘How could you tell that?’
‘You get to recognise the signs when you do a job like mine. He’d come in now and then, usually after work, I suppose, sip his half pint of Pride and work on his crossword, then he’d be off. Just a bit of quiet time between the office and home. Most serious drinkers would down three or four double whiskies in the time it took him to do that.’