What would Modesty Blaise have done? she asked herself. Modesty Blaise wouldn’t have let herself get into that situation to start with. And if she had, Willie would have come to the rescue. But Zelda didn’t have a Willie Garvin. She had a feeling there weren’t any Willie Garvins in the real world.
So she lay there as the paracetamol slowly took effect and did nothing for the rest of that day but lounge around in bed, watch television, drink a lot of water and order room service.
By seven o’clock she was feeling human again and ventured down to the hotel dining room for her evening meal. As she toyed with her stuffed chicken breast and sipped her mineral water, she began to think about a plan. She realised that she had wanted to find Keane because he could lead her to the Tadić brothers, whom she wanted to kill. One more than the other: Goran. Perhaps the loss of his brother would be suffering enough for Petar.
But she had no plan.
She took out her Moleskine and worked through the details. Writing it all down was a risk, but it was how she worked best; besides, she had no intention of letting anyone else read it, and she knew quite well that if she did go through with it, no body would ever be found, and there would be no investigation.
1. Do I have the right to take a human life?
Of course not. Nobody does. But I have done it before, that is true. I killed Darius, but I was fighting for survival, for escape. It doesn’t matter that I felt no remorse — I was too traumatised by my experiences at their hands for any feelings other than relief — it was still self-defence. And he was the one who started out armed. Darius ruined many lives, including mine, and the Tadić brothers have perhaps ruined many more. But does that justify me playing avenging angel and killing them? I don’t know the answer and may never know; it’s an argument I can have with myself for ever, and I’m certainly not going to ask anyone else for a judgement.
2. Can I carry it out?
I don’t know. Do I have the courage, the skill and the brains to go through with it? Goran Tadić is a formidable opponent, strong and ruthless. I’m weaker, and I’m alone. Whatever method I use, I will have to employ more stealth than strength. And if I don’t want to get caught, which I most certainly don’t, I’ll also need a good escape plan and a method that will leave no evidence linking me to the body. It’s a tall order, and I’m not sure I can carry it out.
3. How would I do it?
What method should I use? I have no access to poisons and know nothing about them. I might be able to get my hands on a gun through some old contacts down here, but a gun would be noisy and there would be too much forensic evidence. I don’t know how to use one, anyway, and would probably end up shooting myself in the foot! It would be nice if I could make it appear like an accident — push him under a tube train, for example, or a bus — but that would be difficult to orchestrate. He probably doesn’t use the tube, anyway. Besides, that would have to be done in public, and someone might see me. Knife crimes are common and kitchen knives are certainly easy enough to buy without arousing any suspicions. Maybe that’s the way to go. But first I will have to render him unconscious. My tranquillisers are probably not strong enough. It would take too many of them, and their presence would be hard to disguise. But I still have some of the flunitrazepam my French doctor prescribed before it was taken off the market there. That’s powerful stuff. It will work faster, too. Twenty to thirty minutes. I certainly don’t want to be in a hotel room with Goran Tadić for too long, waiting for him to fall asleep. Flunitrazepam is also soluble in water and alcohol, which is perfect.
4. Is there anyone I can get to help me?
NO.
When Zelda thought of the task ahead in those terms, she felt ready to give up. She ordered a coffee. The alternative would be to admit defeat and go to Alan and tell him where she had located Goran Tadić, who would almost certainly lead him to Keane. Let the police deal with the lot of them. But it still came down to trust. She might trust Alan, but he was one small cog in a large machine, and she didn’t trust that machine one bit. All it took was one man, a whisper in the right ear, and you wouldn’t see Petar and Goran for dust. Or Keane. And even if there wasn’t an informer in the ranks, which she very much doubted, then the evidence against them — if any was found — would be lost or destroyed, or a jury would be nobbled. Somehow or other, the course of justice would be perverted, and they would walk away scot-free.
So she had to regain her resolve, harden herself. There was only her, and she had to get close to Goran Tadić and do it herself.
Which led to one more important question:
5. Will he recognise me?
Because if he knew who she was and didn’t let on, she would be walking into a deathtrap.
In addition to various rental properties around town, the Kerrigan brothers also owned a nightclub and a video arcade on opposite sides of the market square. They had their offices in the club, which used to be known as the Bar None until they took it over and refurbished and rebranded it as The Vaults. It was an unimaginative name, perhaps, but they had brought in flashy new lighting and cocktails with cheeky names, like ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Between the Sheets’, and sold mostly imported bottled beer. They also employed a local DJ keen to make a name for himself on the national scene, and the kids flocked in. There wasn’t much else to do in Eastvale after ten o’clock, especially if you were too pissed to drive to Newcastle, Leeds or Manchester, where there were better clubs.
The Vaults was located under the shops across the cobbled square from the Queen’s Arms and the police station. Banks walked down the steps at ten o’clock that Friday night, when the place was just opening, flashed his warrant card at the bouncer and headed past the long bar with its array of coloured bottles and glasses, across the dance floor with its disco ball and revolving lights, to the offices at the back. He gave a shudder as he remembered the last time he had been there, when it was still called the Bar None, to a crime scene involving his then chief constable’s daughter, Emily Riddle, found dead from a batch of poisoned cocaine in the ladies’ toilet.
Fortunately, the music wasn’t too loud so early in the night, and the DJ hadn’t begun his fierce sampling routines, where a snatch of an old Elvis song might appear under the robotic rhythm and synth sounds of an electro dance number.
Once through the door, he could hardly hear the noise of the club at all. He knocked on the door marked PRIVATE and entered to find Timmy Kerrigan alone at his desk.
Kerrigan stood up. ‘Mr Banks. An unexpected pleasure. Please, sit down. Take a load off.’ He moved an office chair for Banks to sit on. Banks sat. ‘You should have told me you were coming.’
‘What would you have done, Timmy? Organised a brass band?’
Timmy Kerrigan just laughed. It came out as a giggle, the way most of his laughs did.
‘No Tommy tonight?’ Banks asked.
Kerrigan sat down again and swivelled his chair to face Banks. ‘He’s got other business, down in the big city. We’re not Siamese twins, you know. Not joined at the hip, or anywhere else, for that matter.’
‘You’ll have to do, then.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Timmy Kerrigan was the size of a rugby prop forward, but gone to fat. Short golden curls topped a plump round face with a disarmingly youthful peaches and cream complexion. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded and guarded. He must have been in his fifties, but he looked as if he had never had to shave. He was wearing his trademark navy pinstripe suit with the handkerchief poking out of the top pocket and a psychedelic waistcoat, quite dizzying, its buttons straining tight against his stomach.