‘We’re lucky to have such an establishment in town, Mr Banks. You really should try it.’
‘Not on a poor policeman’s salary.’
Kerrigan paused and licked his lips. ‘I’m sure something can be arranged.’
‘Are you offering me a bribe, Timmy?’
‘Heaven forbid! Nothing of the sort. Merely a favour for a friend. I’m afraid that when it comes to the good things in life, I’m a champagne socialist. I think we should all be able to enjoy them, not just an elite few. Don’t you agree?’
‘Would that I could indulge myself,’ said Banks. He put his empty glass down on the desk and stood. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’
‘All mine, Mr Banks. All mine.’
Kerrigan stood up and they shook hands. His was pudgy and clammy. The dance floor on the way out was a lot noisier and more crowded than it had been when Banks first came in, and he had to thread his way through the bobbing, gesticulating crowd of dancers. The DJ was hopping about playing with two turntables against the electrobeat, speeding them up, rotating them backwards, slowing them down. Banks was relieved when he got outside into the relative quiet of the market square. It was after dark, and a few couples and groups of young people were drifting over from the pubs towards The Vaults. Banks eyed the Queen’s Arms, still lit up and relatively busy, but he had already had one drink that evening, and he decided he would be better off heading home and enjoying a drop of Macallan in his conservatory, perhaps with some Marianne Faithful to go with it.
If Zelda had really wanted to date a racing car driver who talked about nothing but himself and his cars, she soon found that it would be very easy to do so. The hard part was getting away from him. He was handsome enough, and he knew it. He also thought he was macho and exciting, and perhaps he was, but that didn’t interest Zelda. All she really wanted to know now was that she still had her appeal, and so she was making a trial run in her hotel’s rooftop bar after dinner that night. It had taken the man less time than it took the barman to pour her a glass of white wine to settle next to her and start a conversation. It had taken her slightly longer to get rid of him, but he got the message eventually and wandered off to survey the other pickings.
For some reason, the whole set-up reminded her of her time in Paris. In luxury, many might say. She had a spacious apartment not too far from the Champs-Élysées, where she did her ‘entertaining’. She didn’t even have to seek men; they were sent to her. Many were considerate and tender, even cultivated and interesting, unlike those she had known in the cheap brothels and sex clubs of Eastern Europe.
But she was still a whore. And she was still a prisoner.
She had no family, so they couldn’t force her into working for them with threats to hurt loved ones. Nor did she owe them money. But Darius made it perfectly clear that if she cheated him or ran out on him, he would find her — he had the means to do so — and would personally supervise her dismemberment. While she was still alive. She was also accompanied by two ‘bodyguards’ when she went shopping, or whenever she took a meal break in the local brasserie. Whatever money she made — and she had no idea how much it was — went to the organisation. Darius had bought her at a ‘sale’ in Sarajevo: an auction, where she and the other ‘lots’ had been forced to parade in a kind of sick catwalk, first scantily clad, then naked, while prospective buyers lined up to feel the firmness of their breasts and the tightness of their vaginas. In certain cases, a free trial might be approved, though she was fortunate in avoiding that. She soon discovered that Darius was repelled by women and would no sooner touch one of the girls than he would a rabid dog. Though she was never sure, she was fairly certain that he preferred men.
She was lucky, people told her. Darius was no backstreet brothel-keeper. He had a stable of high-class call girls in Paris, and they got the crème de la crème of clientele. Government ministers. Visiting Hollywood celebrities. Leaders of industry. It was there that Zelda had learned to use her natural charms rather than simply lie back and open her legs. Some of the men were quite sophisticated and appreciated conversation and little sensual touches, like a massage. Not all wanted sex. Sometimes she felt like a geisha.
But she was still a whore. And she was still a prisoner.
Darius wore bespoke suits, drank the best champagne and had the best drugs — that was where Zelda picked up her coke habit. It helped get her through the day, and the downers at night helped her forget where and what she was.
Then came Emile, a very important client, she was told. A government minister tipped for even higher office. After two visits, during which he never laid a finger on her, Emile told her he was in love with her. She didn’t know what love was outside of the books she had read, so she didn’t really know if she felt the same way. But she said she did. It made him happy. And if he was happy, Darius was happy. And if Darius was happy, he wouldn’t beat her so often. For despite his fancy suits, champagne, drugs and cologne, he was a brute underneath, just like those brutes that had abducted her.
Emile started plotting her escape. He would leave his wife and they would live together in Paris, he said, and when he had time off, he had a beautiful villa in Provence where they could stay. It would be idyllic, a wonderful life. He couldn’t bear it that she had to see other men; he wanted her all to himself. She couldn’t imagine what that might be like, but he was kind and she enjoyed his company. As time went on, she began to trust him and love him in her way. So together, they formed a plan. Emile was an important figure in a department of the French government, and he said he could help her get a passport if she helped him bring down Darius. She said she would. What were a few months more if they meant freedom? But she remembered Darius’s threat, and she knew that he meant it. The only way she could ever be entirely free of him was to kill him.
‘Is this seat taken?’
Zelda snapped back out of her memories. ‘Sorry?’
‘This seat — is it taken?’
Zelda waved her hand. ‘Oh. No. Not at all.’
‘I’m surprised to hear that.’
Zelda turned to face the stranger, an American by the sound of him. ‘Why would that be?’ she asked.
‘A beautiful woman like you.’
Oh, Christ, thought Zelda, here we go again. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ she said.
‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Every little bit helps. I just got some bad news from my doctor, and I could do with a pick-me-up, as well as someone to talk to. You can commiserate with me.’
‘White wine?’ He edged closer. ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ A note of caution crept into his voice.
Zelda spoke between sniffles. ‘He says the penicillin should get rid of it, but in the meantime it hurts like hell every time I have to take a piss.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, got up and hurried off.
When he was far enough away, Zelda knocked back the remainder of her drink, smiled to herself, then stood up, straightened her shoulders and headed back to her room. Trial run successful, she decided. Tomorrow, she hoped, it would be time for the real thing.
Chapter 9
Lisa Bartlett’s house was on Elmet Court, a residential street branching off about halfway down Elmet Hill and winding its way south. Though smaller than the Myers’s house on Elmet Close, the houses there were Georgian-style semis with bay windows and tiny lawns enclosed by privet hedges. Most had driveways and garages, so there were very few vehicles parked in the narrow street.
Gerry had known Lisa only in the wake of her sexual assault, so she had no idea what she had been like before. Now, several weeks later, she still appeared very much affected by her experience — eyes dull, hair lacklustre, generally fidgety, anxious and unable to look people in the eye. That Saturday morning, she sat slumped on the sofa, legs curled under her, wearing ice-blue jeans and a big woolly sweater whose sleeves covered her hands. Her mother sat beside her, stiff and straight, hands clasped on her lap. Mrs Bartlett was an attractive woman of about forty, Gerry guessed, though the strain of family upheaval was starting to show in tension lines around her eyes and mouth. Though it was a warm day, the electric fire blazed away and Gerry felt herself stifling.