The first-class carriage wasn’t very full, even though weekend upgrades weren’t terribly expensive, and she had managed to get an unreserved single forward-facing seat. Soon they were passing the Emirates Stadium, then on past Alexandra Palace and through the London suburbs into open countryside. The attendant came around with weak coffee and took breakfast orders. Zelda wasn’t hungry, but she realised she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime the previous day, so she ordered some eggs and a croissant and sat back to try and relax.
It was a journey she usually enjoyed, splitting her time between reading and gazing out of the window. And it was another beautiful day. But Zelda felt cut off from it all, as if the world outside were merely projected on a screen. There was no way she could concentrate on her book.
The events of the previous evening at the Hotel Belgrade were still fresh in her mind, and whenever she shut her eyes, she saw Goran Tadić opening his, then the knife flash down and the mess that followed. Her breath would get stuck in her throat, and she would start to panic, certain that anyone who saw her would know what she was reliving.
They passed Peterborough, Newark, Grantham, Doncaster. Zelda thought and thought about what she had done and whether she would ever have to pay the price. She was certain that Goran’s gang would make sure any evidence of his murder was swept under the carpet, and that there would be no police involvement. But what then? Would they just let it go or carry out their own investigation? And if that led to her, would they carry out their own form of vengeance? She shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about.
But what if his pals didn’t find him first? What if a hotel worker had become suspicious of the DO NOT DISTURB sign for some reason and opened the room and called the police? If the police got to the scene before Petar Tadić, Keane and the others could dispose of Goran’s body, they would start to ask questions. Would the trail lead to her? She had cleaned up, but had she done it well enough? Would they find the waitress from the restaurant and Faye Butler? The young jogger who had approached her as she was dumping the knife in the river? Would they be able to find the knife? Would the water have washed away all her fingerprints and any remaining traces of Tadić’s blood?
Even if there was no forensic evidence, they could probably trace her movements. Someone would remember the attractive woman in the hotel bar, would remember that she had let the victim pick her up and take her to his room. Forensic officers would go over the room carefully. They would find traces of her. A hair here, a fingerprint there. DNA. The staff at the hotel reception desk must have seen them walking towards the lifts. Maybe someone had even seen her hurrying out alone after the murder. The concierge? The taxi driver? They would tell their stories. Describe her in detail. And what about the security cameras? An identikit image would be published in all the papers and shown on television.
By the time the train stopped in York, paranoia had Zelda in its grip, and she was convinced that the police would be waiting for her. But they weren’t. The large station seemed fairly busy, and she was lucky to find a taxi idling out front. The Lyndgarth cottage was a good fare for the cabbie — close to forty pounds plus tip. Zelda settled in the back and tried to breathe normally. They could be waiting for her at the cottage, of course. She checked the Sky and BBC news bulletins on her mobile. There was nothing reported about a body being discovered at a London hotel. And Zelda was sure that if it hadn’t been discovered yet, that was because the others had got to it and made it disappear. She started to relax as the taxi drove around Eastvale and into the moorland near Lyndgarth. Soon she was at her door fumbling for money in her purse. The driver seemed happy with the fiver she added to the fare, and he even waited until she had got her door open before driving off. That certainly didn’t always happen these days.
The interior was as she had left it — which was tidy, for the most part, with the dishes washed and put away, the sink cleaned, living room dusted and electrical items unplugged. She plugged them all in again and boiled the kettle for tea. Luckily, it was a warm day, and she didn’t need to turn on the heating. The Internet router was still working fine, she saw, and once again checked the news sites. Again, there was nothing.
She had realised in the taxi that she’d had her mobile set on airplane mode since before her visit to the Hotel Belgrade, and when she had turned it off to check the news, she had noticed there was a telephone message from Alan Banks. In the cottage, the message light was flashing on the landline in the kitchen, too. Just for a moment, she panicked. Alan again? What if he was on to her? He was a policeman, after all. But she dismissed the idea as absurd. That wasn’t how they operated.
The message on the landline was from Alan. He was asking her to get in touch with him as soon as she got back. He sounded serious, and for a moment she wondered again if he could possibly have found out anything about what she had been doing, but soon decided that he couldn’t. Well, she was back now, she thought, so she reached out for the landline and dialled his number.
Banks had to wait only about five minutes a few yards down the road from Frankie Wallace’s house before Annie pulled up behind him in her grey Nissan. There were no grounds or landscaped gardens here, not even a postage-stamp lawn between the pavement and the front door.
Frankie let them in grudgingly, and they sat in the living room opposite the large flat-screen TV, in the shadow of the old boxing trophies. A suitcase lay open on one of the chairs, half-filled with shirts and underwear. Frankie bent over and started rearranging them.
‘Going somewhere, Frankie?’ Banks asked.
‘Aye. I’m going back home to Scotland,’ Frankie said. ‘Glasgow. Living’s cheaper up there.’
‘Why now?’
‘I’m retiring. Had enough.’
‘Surely you’re too young to retire?’ Annie said.
‘I’ve got a nice little nest egg that should see me through, pet.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘And this place should bring me a bit more when I finally sell it. No more yes, sir; no, sir; three bags fucking full, sir.’
‘So what’s brought this on?’ Banks asked.
Frankie paused in his packing, moved the suitcase on to the floor and sat down. ‘I’ve taken a few punches in my time,’ he said, ‘and I had the sense to get out of that game before I got knocked into the middle of somewhere I could never get back from. But that was child’s play compared with this lot.’
‘Which lot?’
‘The fucking Albanians and all the rest of those fuckers.’
‘Leka Gashi?’
‘Aye. He’s their boss. Nasty fucking piece of work, and I’ve met a few in my time.’
‘What about them?’
‘They make me nervous, that’s what. They’re always hanging around the house, and I don’t like the way they’ve been looking at me lately. One of them thumped Tommy Kerrigan just for looking at him the wrong way. I’ve felt like thumping the wee pillock more than once in the time I’ve known him, but this bloke did it. Just like that.’
‘You must have known they were violent types right from the start, Frankie.’
‘It’s not just that. They’ve got no moral compass, Mr Banks. That’s what’s wrong with them. Not all of them, I should imagine. I’m not a racist, and I’m sure there are plenty of decent, honest Albanians around. But not the ones that my old boss has taken to hanging around with. I’ve done a few things I’ve been ashamed of over the years, but...’ He shook his head. ‘Pool parties with drugs and underage girls, boys, trans, you name it. Bestial acts. Casual brutality. They’ve got no shame. They’re a corrupt and vice-ridden lot, and I’ve had enough of them.’