Disappointed, Gerry put the photograph away. ‘His name was Samir,’ she said, though she didn’t know why she said it. ‘Can you describe this grandson?’
‘He was a typical teenager, pleasant enough, but a bit shifty, if you know what I mean. Always seemed as if he was hiding something or up to something. But a lot of kids are like that, aren’t they, always looking as if they’ve had their hand in the piggy bank? Didn’t go out much. Rode a bike sometimes. Always wearing a backpack.’
‘What colour hair?’
‘Fair. And cut short, like they have it these days. I must say I preferred it when I was a young lass and all the lads had long hair.’
She got a faraway look in her eye, and Gerry hurried along to avoid a ‘those were the days’ digression. ‘Tall or short?’
‘Medium.’
‘Fat or thin?’
‘Thin.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Jeans and T-shirt when it was warm enough. Usually with something written on it. The T-shirt, that is.’
‘Can you remember what?’
‘No. There were several different ones. Images of the devil or skeletons. That sort of thing.’
‘Like heavy metal images?’
‘Yes. Like Black Sabbath used to wear.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Trainers, mostly. White. I don’t know what brand. Little ticks on them. They all look the same to me.’
Nike, Gerry noted. ‘And when it was cooler?’
‘One of those hoodie jackets. The ones that make everyone look like a criminal.’
‘What kind of a bicycle did he ride?’
‘Now you’re asking me. All I can say is, it wasn’t like those in that Tour de France that came through here a few years ago. It had straight handlebars, for a start, not those bent ones, like goats’ horns.’
‘Do you remember what colour it was?’
‘Red. Bright red.’
‘You’re doing really well, Mrs Cunningham. How long ago was he here?’
‘Margery, please, love. A while ago. I haven’t seen him for two or three weeks now. Maybe longer. Time seems to go by a lot faster these days.’
‘Is it unusual for him not to visit for so long?’
‘I suppose so. Like I said, he used to come up more often than that.’
‘And how long had he been visiting Mr Stokes?’
‘Past year or so. Back and forth.’
‘Do you know where he went when he wasn’t here?’
‘No idea, love. We never talked beyond saying good morning. He didn’t come and kiss me goodbye. Home to his mum and dad, I suppose, for all I know.’
‘Did he have people visiting him?’
‘Yes. Odd that, really. When Mr Stokes was there by himself, you’d never see anyone there from one day to the next. But the lad had quite a few visitors. And he was hardly off that mobile phone of his. I’ve no time for them, myself.’
‘What kind of visitors did the boy have?’
‘Mostly kids his own age, or older. Some of them seemed a bit seedy. All sorts, really. They never caused any trouble, though. Mostly they didn’t stay long.’
‘What did Mr Stokes have to say about it?’
‘Nothing. Not to me, at any rate.’ She paused. ‘Oh, dear. How can I say this without sounding judgemental? I mean, I wouldn’t want to speak ill of the dead, but...’
‘Go on, Mrs Cunningham.’
‘Margery, please. Well, it’s just that Mr Stokes was a bit... like he wasn’t all there. He was in his own world. I don’t know what you’d call it. We used to say retarded, but I don’t know what the word is now. But it wasn’t his fault.’
‘What wasn’t?’
‘That he hadn’t had much education, though he did like to read a lot. He was a bit childlike, if you know what I mean. I think maybe that young lad took advantage of him, having his friends round and all.’
Gerry was getting the distinct impression that this was a textbook county lines operation. But what had happened to the operation? Perhaps the young man in question would be back. Or perhaps he had been replaced by Samir. But Margery Cunningham said she hadn’t seen Samir around the neighbourhood, and she had no reason to lie.
‘Do you remember the boy’s name?’ Gerry asked.
‘Never knew it.’
‘Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can you tell me anything more about him?’
‘No, love. I’m sorry.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘Do you know, I’ve been here over twenty-five years, but I shan’t be sad to leave. It used to be a nice estate, the Hollyfield. Good people. Honest. Decent. For the most part. You got the odd bad ’un. You always do, don’t you? But look at it now. Pah. No. Take me to my sheltered flat. That’s what I say. I’ll live out my days quite happily there. The sooner they knock this bloody place to the ground, the better.’
That was the second time today Gerry had heard that sentiment expressed, she realised as she headed back towards the park.
Tadić certainly appeared more presentable than the scruffy, unwashed animal Zelda remembered, as no doubt befit his elevated status in the organisation, but it was him. She was certain. Put an ogre in an expensive suit and it was still an ogre. Though she tried to keep a grip on herself, she couldn’t help but grab her book and her shoulder bag and rush towards the street exit. As she did so, her bag knocked over the empty wine glass, and it shattered on the floor. His head jerked in her direction. She felt a chill run through her, as if she had inadvertently awoken a sleeping snake or crocodile, some sort of reptilian beast that operated on instinct alone. She kept going, ignoring the nasty looks she got from people she bumped into, until she was out in the street. Once there, she merged with the flow of pedestrians heading towards Marylebone Road and Great Portland Street Underground. She had no idea where she was going, only that her breath was tight in her chest, her heart was pounding dangerously fast and she had to get away from the Hotel Belgrade.
Every now and then she glanced back to see if Tadić was following her, but she didn’t see him. Why should he be? It was nothing, she tried to tell herself. A woman gets up and knocks her glass over by accident. People react to the sound, that’s all. Besides, the last time he had seen Zelda, she had been just seventeen years old. She looked very different now, and her nose hadn’t been broken then. Besides, context is everything. He wouldn’t recognise her, and he certainly wouldn’t expect to bump into her in a London hotel bar. As far as she knew, they had had no contact after the breaking house in Vršac, and he must have broken in hundreds of girls after her.
Not that he had waited until Vršac to begin the process. They had a twelve- or thirteen-hour drive across Romania first, and Goran Tadić had started as soon as they got on the highway, messing with her clothes, groping her breasts in the back of the car. She had tried to resist but whenever she did, he would hit her again. And though he couldn’t take her valuable virginity, it didn’t stop him from anally raping her. As the car sped through the wild and mountainous countryside of Transylvania, she could do nothing but lie there face down on the car seat and take it. All she could remember now was the pain, the smell of the dreadful cigar his brother was smoking as he drove and the relentless thumping and surging of the American rap music playing in the car. Finally, she had passed out and only came to a while later, when Goran Tadić was in the driver’s seat and his brother Petar in the back with her, ready to take his turn. Again she fought, and again it was to no avail. Even as early as that, she began to learn how they only hurt her more if she fought them, how to find that place outside herself, to watch the actions disinterestedly, as if from a great distance, and to numb all feeling. But she wasn’t quite so skilled at the start as she became later. This was before she learned to live with pain, to float inside it. It hurt. She bled. She cried.