‘It did cross my mind. You told me he liked to start fires. But why would you think this Keane knew my boss, Mr Hawkins?’
‘Your boss would have seen the photographs, surely? It’s not such a long stretch from there, especially if Keane is involved with known traffickers.’
‘Of course. But why would you think Keane would harm Mr Hawkins?’
‘Are you still looking for Keane, Zelda?’
‘I never stopped. Just nothing happened for so long. There have been no more photographs of him. I’m sorry.’
‘And then?’
‘The fire.’
‘Whitescape’ was playing now, all long, drawn-out chords, flurries of sound and crashing percussion behind. ‘Why did you walk by the house?’
Zelda looked down into her wine glass. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to see for myself. It was terrible. A ruin. They said it was an accident.’
‘But you think differently?’
‘How do you know about all this? My name? The fire?’
‘A friend. Another policeman.’
‘And he wants what?’
‘Nothing. He knows the detectives who talked to you.’
‘Danvers and the one he called Deborah?’
‘That’s right.’
‘They think I killed Mr Hawkins?’
‘No. But they think there’s something you’re not telling them. You think there’s something odd about it all, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t tell them about Keane.’
‘I’m afraid I let that slip to my friend.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t think Mr Hawkins was the kind of man to get drunk and then put a chip pan full of oil on his burner, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So you suspect that someone helped him do it?’
‘I think it is possible, yes. But I’m not investigating the case. Perhaps you are. Is that why you’re asking me all these questions?’
‘No. I told you. A friend of mine dropped by and told me about it. He found out about your connection with Ray, and he knows Annie through me. He put two and two together. He works with the NCA. I don’t think they’re entirely happy with the chip-pan theory either.’
‘So they asked you to question me to see if I know anything I’m not telling them?’
‘Sort of. But it’s nothing as sinister as that. He just asked if I’d have a chat with you about it, see if you knew anything more. Nobody thinks you had anything to do with it, Zelda. Besides, they know you were in Croatia at the time.’
‘That’s true.’
‘With an old friend?’
Zelda nodded.
‘It’s OK,’ said Banks. ‘I’m not asking you for an alibi. I trust you. I don’t think you had anything to do with what happened.’
‘I don’t like being interrogated. You’re supposed to be my friend.’
‘I’m not interrogating you, and I like to think I am your friend. Friends need to be honest with one another.’ Banks went into the kitchen, opened his last bottle of Nero d’Avola and changed the music with his mobile, choosing an album called Blues Dialogues, a series of blues-themed violin pieces played by Rachel Barton Pine. When he got back, carrying the bottle with him, Zelda was sitting exactly as he had left her, a slightly petulant expression on her face. She accepted a refill, then Banks filled his own glass and sat down. ‘I’m sorry,’ Zelda said. ‘There is just so much on my mind. So much I want to forget. I get upset when there are too many questions.’
‘Just understand this, Zelda. I’m not out to get you or trip you up. I’m on your side. I’m also in the midst of a very nasty and very depressing case at the moment, involving the murder of a thirteen-year-old Syrian migrant who was stuffed in a wheelie bin on the East Side Estate.’
Zelda looked sadly at him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I read about that. It sounds terrible.’
‘It is. And it’s throwing up all kinds of connections.’
‘Not Phil Keane?’
‘Not yet, no. But it wouldn’t surprise me. We think the boy was involved in a county line drug operation that fell afoul of an Albanian gangster called Leka Gashi. Ever heard of him?’
Zelda shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But you need to be careful. I do know something about the Albanians from experience.’
‘You were there?’
‘Briefly. Tirana. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘You don’t have to. Gashi and his cohorts are taking over a number of local drug operations and managing to dispose of the competition as they do so. Another name that came up was Tadić. Petar Tadić. A Croatian. Does that name mean anything to you?’
But Banks hardly needed to ask. Zelda seemed to freeze, turn rigid, as she said through a clamped jaw, ‘No.’
‘Zelda. I know you know who he is. He’s the other man in that photograph with Keane, isn’t he?’
Zelda paused for a while, then nodded.
‘Why didn’t you tell me? It might have helped.’
‘Because he was of no interest to you. You wanted to know about Keane. I told you Tadić was a bad man who liked to hurt girls.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper.
‘Is that who you were visiting in Croatia?’
‘No. Of course not. He is someone I would stay away from. I was visiting a friend. Tadić is not a friend.’
‘Who, then?’
‘A woman. She runs a hostel for girls who have escaped. And that’s all I will tell you. She values her privacy more than anything.’
‘All right,’ said Banks. ‘I understand Tadić had risen in the organisation.’
‘That’s no surprise. Men like him always do.’
‘And Keane is involved in whatever’s going on? In what happened to you.’
‘No. I didn’t know Keane. I have never met him. He must be new. He wasn’t around when I... all those years ago.’
‘Can you help me any more? Help me find Keane through Tadić?’
Zelda shook her head.
Banks felt that she was still holding something back, but he knew better than to pursue it any further tonight. Her defences were fragile. No matter how tough her hard life had made her, there was a vulnerability and sensitivity about her that, Banks thought, once broken, once trespassed upon, would leave her defenceless. Instead, he smiled at her. ‘OK, interrogation over. Shall we finish the bottle?’
Zelda cocked an eye at him. ‘Are you trying to get me drunk?’
‘Zelda, if three glasses of wine are enough to get you drunk, you’re not the woman I thought you were.’
Zelda laughed, a loud but strangely musical sound, and held out her glass. ‘Za Lyubov,’ she said when it was full, and tossed a good part of it back in one.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s a Russian toast.’
‘I thought that was na zdarovye?’
‘That’s what everyone thinks. They’re wrong.’
‘Za Lyubov, then,’ said Banks. ‘When is Ray coming back?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Zelda. ‘Soon, I hope. A few days.’
‘You miss him?’
‘Of course. Not his music, though.’
‘No Edgar Broughton Band or Quintessence tonight, don’t worry.’
Zelda laughed. ‘He is like a little boy. But his paintings...’ She sighed.
‘And your work?’
‘Bah. Nothing. Trinkets. Pleasant wall hangings to be sold at country fêtes like on Midsomer Murders. You watch that?’
‘Afraid not,’ said Banks. ‘I’m a George Gently fan, myself.’
So they talked for a while about television, music, painting, movies and books. Zelda, it turned out, had not only read all of the big Russian novels Banks aspired to — in Russian — but she had also read most of the big European novels, too, from Pamela to Ulysses. When he told her he didn’t know where she got the time, she said she had read most of them at the orphanage, in her teens, and it was true she had little time for reading after her abduction, and scant access to books. Banks felt bad for bringing up the subject when he saw the deep sadness in her eyes.