‘Banksy,’ Burgess said, stretching out his hand.
Banks shook. He had given up trying to get Burgess to stop calling him Banksy. The harder he tried, the more the bastard did it. ‘What the hell do you want at this time of night?’ he asked.
‘Well, that’s a fine northern welcome,’ Burgess said, stepping into the room. ‘I thought you lot were supposed to be friendly. It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m not after a home, or even a bed for the night. Got a young lady here, have you?’
‘There’s nobody here but me.’
‘Sad, Banksy, sad. And I used to envy you your good luck in that department. Especially that lovely young Italian bint you had a few years ago. Well, the two of us can have a nice uninterrupted drink and natter about old times, can’t we?’
Banks led the way through to the conservatory, where he had been watching the rose and lilac traces of sunset in the sky through the dip in the hills between Tetchley Fell and the Pennines.
‘Lovely,’ said Burgess, rubbing his hands together. ‘Nice view. I don’t believe I’ve been in the inner sanctum before.’
Banks realised that was true. In all the years they had known each other, neither had been in the other’s home.
‘What’s this music?’ Burgess asked.
‘Nico,’ Banks told him.
‘Hmm. If the dead could sing... Give me a shake if I fall asleep. Anything to drink?’
Banks used his remote to turn off the music halfway through ‘Secret Side’, one of his favourites. Annoyed as he was at the interruption, he had to admit that Burgess had a point; there was something definitely otherworldly about Nico’s songs and voice. ‘What do you fancy?’
‘Got any lager?’
‘I might have a can or two of Stella left.’
‘Stella? Aren’t we posh? OK. That’ll do fine, I suppose.’
Banks went into the kitchen and got a tin out of the fridge and a glass from the cupboard above. He also picked up the bottle of Negroamaro he had just opened. He would probably need another glass of that, maybe two. One often did with Burgess.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure,’ he said after handing Burgess the tin and glass and refilling his own. He noticed that Burgess had taken his favourite chair, the one with the best view, so took the one at a right angle to it.
‘I suppose you know I’ve been working quite closely with the NCA lately?’ Burgess said.
‘I’d heard,’ said Banks. ‘How’s that going?’ Burgess seemed healthy, he thought. He’d lost a bit of weight around the middle, and the bags under his cynical grey eyes had grown smaller. He still had that seen-it-all, world-weary look, which had perhaps escalated to a seen-even-more and still-world-weary look. Banks had been feeling more world-weary himself for the past couple of years. It was getting to be that kind of world. Wearying. He didn’t know whether it showed in his eyes, or in the bags underneath them. No one had told him that it did.
‘Well...’ Burgess went on. ‘It means a lot of drug cases, a lot of gang stuff, organised crime. That world’s changing fast; the new boss isn’t the same as the old boss. He’s just as likely to slip a knife between your ribs as he is to give you a Christmas bonus. Anyway, that’s not what I’ve come to see you about.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Do you know a woman called Nelia Melnic?’
‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘She’s some sort of local artist. Goes under the name of Zelda.’
Banks paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. ‘Zelda? Yes. Of course. That’s Ray’s partner.’
Burgess nodded. ‘Only her name came up, and when I found she was living in North Yorkshire with an artist called Raymond Cabbot, my antenna immediately started twitching. Isn’t your DI called Annie Cabbot? Your old squeeze.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So who’s Ray, then? Her brother?’
‘It’s her father,’ said Banks. ‘He moved up here from Cornwall last year.’
‘Her father! Bloody hell. Have you seen her? Nelia? He must—’
‘Be old enough to be her father, yes. Grandfather, maybe. I know.’
Burgess shook his head slowly. ‘What a bloody waste.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Banks paused to drink some wine. ‘Think about it. You’re easily old enough to be her father, too, when it comes right down to it. Anyway, what does the NCA want with Zelda? As far as I know she works for them as a consultant.’
‘Super-recogniser. Yes, I know.’
‘Then...?’
‘I also know a little bit about her background, what a hard time she’s had of it. Though I must say, from the photo, that she—’
‘Yes,’ said Banks. ‘She’s a looker all right. Stunner, you might say. But why are you interested? Apart from the obvious.’
‘You do me a disservice, Banksy. This isn’t about her looks. I was just making a passing comment, that’s all. No matter what you might think of me, I’m not insensitive. When I think about what she must have suffered over the years it makes me want to throttle someone.’
‘So what’s wrong? Has something happened to Zelda?’
‘No. No. Nothing like that.’
‘So the point of your visit is...? Not that I’m not happy to see you, of course.’
‘Naturally. My point? Does it make her want to throttle someone? Not literally, you understand. Or maybe it is literal. I don’t know.’
‘She goes down to London every now and then and spends a few days studying photos and videos of suspected sex traffickers and their contacts and gives what information she can to the NCA for their database. That’s all I know about her job. I asked for her help when she said she saw a photo of Phil Keane in London with a Croatian trafficker she recognised. She never told me his name. Classified, I suppose.’
‘Probably Petar Tadić,’ said Burgess. ‘He’s a real piece of work. Operating over here now far too often for our liking, and someone we’ve been very interested in lately. Is Keane the bloke who set fire to your house?’
‘Yes.’
Burgess whistled through his teeth then gulped some lager. Banks watched his face. He seemed to be mulling over something that had just occurred to him. ‘What happened?’ Burgess asked finally.
‘Nothing,’ said Banks. ‘She drew a blank. That was just before Christmas.’
‘What you’ve just told me puts a new complexion on things,’ Burgess said. ‘I need a moment to reshuffle.’
Banks worked on his wine and listened to the silence stretch.
Finally Burgess spoke. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘This goes no further, understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Banks.
Tadić didn’t make a move in the lift, for which Zelda was grateful. The hotel room was small and seemed to be dominated by the bed, but that was London hotels for you. At least it was tidy. Zelda was willing to bet he hadn’t been there since the maid service earlier in the day. As soon as they got in, he hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door, switched on one dim corner lamp, put his drink down on the desk and said, ‘I must use toilet.’
He went in and she soon heard the splashing of his powerful stream. Hands shaking, she took the three two-milligram capsules of flunitrazepam from her handbag and dropped them into his whisky, then used the wooden stirrer she had brought from the bar to stir it up. Next, she lit a cigarette with shaking hands and went to stand by the window. It looked out on the square below. The streetlights had just come on and it was quiet at that time of the evening. Twilight. She inhaled the acrid smoke deep into her lungs before exhaling it in a long plume. The irony of using the date rape drug on the man who had raped her wasn’t lost on her. She wasn’t sure whether she had given him enough or too much, but Tadić was a big man and six milligrams ought to be enough. Christ, she hoped it worked. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. She was pretty sure that he didn’t know who she was. And being arrogant and stupid in equal parts, he was so certain of his own attractiveness that he wouldn’t think for a moment he was being set up. Especially by a woman. If he did know, he was a far better actor than she had given him credit for.