‘Evening, Frankie,’ said Banks when a sweaty Wallace opened the door in his string vest and rugby trousers. ‘Been pounding the crap out of a punch bag?’
Wallace grunted. ‘I like to keep fit.’
‘Good for you.’ Banks couldn’t help noticing that Wallace did still look fit, more muscle than fat. His face was a mass of hardened scar tissue which probably didn’t even feel incoming punches, and his nose and left ear didn’t seem to have recovered from his years in the ring. ‘Remember me?’
‘I never forget a copper. You’re Banks, aren’t you? You did me once. Long time ago.’
‘That’s right. Good to know all those punches you let through your guard haven’t done your memory any harm. Can I come in?’
‘I suppose you’d better. Excuse the mess.’
The mess wasn’t quite as bad as Banks expected for a man of Wallace’s intelligence and social skills living alone, though it did smell a bit like a gym at closing time. The living room was untidy but clean, with a massive flat-screen TV dominating one corner. Its obvious focal point, though, was a glass case full of trophies: cups, shields, belts and gloves.
‘What is it you’re after?’ Wallace said when they had sat down.
‘A bit of information.’
‘I’ll no talk about my clients, if that’s what you mean. That’s privileged, like a doctor or a vicar.’
‘I understand you work exclusively for Connor Clive Blaydon these days?’
‘Aye.’
‘Works you hard, does he?’
‘Well, he doesn’t drive, himself, so I get plenty of practice, thank you.’
‘Where do you drive him?’
‘All over the place.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘No. It’s between him and me.’
‘How does it work?’
‘I don’t get you.’
‘Well, you don’t live on the premises. Are you on call?’
‘Oh, I see. Aye. He gives me a bell, and I’m there in twenty minutes, tops.’
‘Where do you keep the Merc? I didn’t see one out on the street.’
‘You must be joking. Car like that wouldn’t last five minutes around these parts. He keeps it at his place, and I drive over in my wee Toyota when he calls.’
‘You’d have to break a few speed limits to get there in twenty minutes from here.’
Wallace just glared at him. ‘Speeding now, is it?’
‘No. It’s the other part of your job I’m interested in.’
‘What other part?’
‘Messages, errands, muscle, bodyguard stuff.’
‘I don’t do anything wrong.’
‘Not saying you do.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘So what do you want? I haven’t got all day.’
‘Answer my questions and it’ll be over a lot quicker.’
‘I am answering your questions, as best I can. You haven’t really asked any yet.’
‘Fair enough. Do you ever drive Blaydon to London?’
‘I told you—’
‘Oh, go on, answer me, Frankie. What harm can it do? Just in general. London’s a big place.’
Wallace muttered to himself for a moment, then said, ‘Aye, of course. The boss does a lot of business there. He’s got an office and all that. Nothing secret about it.’
‘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.’