On his way down the A1 to Leeds later that day, Banks listened to Jeremy Irons reading T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets. He wouldn’t have professed to understand it, though there were moments of surprising clarity, but he responded to the music of the language, and Irons performed it beautifully. He was supposed to get together with his poet friend Linda Palmer to discuss it over a long leisurely Sunday lunch together next week, and she would no doubt, as usual, enlighten him.
That morning in the station had produced one interesting lead. Vic Manson had managed to pull several sets of fingerprints from the red bicycle frame abandoned in Howard Stokes’s backyard, and one belonged to a boy called Greg Janson, who turned up on IDENT1. Janson had been arrested two weeks ago in a round-up of suspected drug users in a Leeds squat, so his address was on record. He hadn’t been charged with any crime yet, but his fingerprints and DNA were still on the database, and could be kept there for up to six months. Tyler Cleary had mentioned to Gerry that his contact on Hollyfield Lane was called Greg, so this was most likely the fair-haired boy Margery Cunningham had told Gerry about. If he was, then he should know something about the county lines operation in Eastvale. It also made perfect sense that the other end of the line, where the drugs came from, was Leeds.
DCI Ken Blackstone had said he would be happy to meet Banks at Greg’s place of work, a garage on the ring road near the Horsforth exit. Janson worked the four until midnight shift, so Banks timed his arrival for five. They had arranged to meet in the Asda car park behind the garage, and Banks figured the quickest way to get there was to turn off the A1 at Wetherby and join the ring road near the golf club, then head west through Moortown and Weetwood.
He switched off Four Quartets as he negotiated the numerous ring road roundabouts and the Leeds rush-hour traffic. He had just got to the start of ‘East Coker’, with its famous opening about the end being in the beginning. It seemed a good place to stop.
He found the car park at the big roundabout without much trouble and immediately saw Ken Blackstone leaning against his silver Focus enjoying the mild May weather. Banks angled his Porsche into the next spot.
‘Looking a bit shabby, isn’t it?’ Blackstone said by way of greeting.
‘All it needs is a good wash and brush up,’ Banks replied. ‘Besides, there’s no such thing as a shabby Porsche. It’s just got character, that’s all.’
Blackstone laughed and held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, Alan.’
Banks shook it. ‘You, too.’
Blackstone nodded towards the garage. ‘Shall we?’
‘Lead the way.’
They walked between parked cars and across the busy Asda lot, then arrived at the garage. ‘Greg works in the shop,’ said Blackstone, pointing past the pumps to the door. Banks made his way past the magazine rack and down an aisle flanked by crisps and sweet snack foods and walked to the counter. There were two young lads working there, both wearing jackets that bore the name of the brand of petrol they were selling. One had a name tag that read ‘GREG’. Both were busy.
Banks and Blackstone waited until Janson had finished with his customer then introduced themselves. Greg didn’t react much; he seemed neither interested nor worried to find two police detectives asking if they could talk to him.
‘I’ll just ask the boss if it’s all right to take an early break,’ he said, then opened a door behind him and made his request. He must have received an affirmative answer because he came back, ducked under the counter at the far end, where the newspapers were, and accompanied them outside. ‘Mind if we go over there?’ he said, pointing to a wall by the back of the Asda lot. ‘Only there’s no smoking near the garage, and I’m dying for a fag.’
Banks smiled and nodded. He remembered the feeling, though it came back to him only rarely these days. As far as he knew, Ken Blackstone had never smoked, but he seemed happy enough to go along with Greg’s request. Blackstone was coming to resemble Philip Larkin more and more every time Banks saw him. Or Eric Morecambe. He wasn’t sure which.
They reached the wall, and Greg sat down and lit up. He was of medium height, skinny and fair-haired, which matched the description they had. ‘What is it you want?’ he said. ‘I’ve been a good boy lately.’
‘I’m sure you have,’ said Banks. ‘But we want to talk to you about Eastvale. Hollyfield Lane.’
Greg blew out smoke and nodded slowly. ‘That’s all behind me now,’ he said. ‘I know you lot have a hard time believing anyone can turn his life around, but that’s what I’ve done. I’ve got a decent job, a nice little flat and a girlfriend, and things are going really well for me.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Banks. ‘And, believe it or not, I’m not here to judge you or in any way ruin what you’ve got going. I’m not interested in what drugs you did or didn’t take or sell. Do you admit you were a cuckoo in Eastvale?’
‘Be a fool to deny it, wouldn’t I, as it’s probably on record? That was obviously what the police were interested in when they arrested us, but I wasn’t carrying enough to get done for dealing.’
‘There’s definitely a crackdown on county lines,’ Banks said. ‘Who was the gangmaster?’
Greg drew deeply on his cigarette. After he’d blown out the smoke, he said, just as Frankie Wallace had said the previous day, ‘I’m not a snitch. Even if it mattered.’
‘It doesn’t?’
‘He’s dead, so I’d say not.’
‘Then I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t tell us. Can you?’
Greg thought for a while, then said. ‘OK. It’s Lenny G. Like I said, it doesn’t matter. He’s dead. That’s why I got out myself.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know all the ins and outs. I was low-level. A cuckoo, as you say, with an old junkie called Howard on Hollyfield Lane, up in Eastvale.’
‘Howard Stokes?’
‘Yeah. You know him? Nice bloke. Real gentle soul, old sixties type, but fucked up, you know, up there.’ He pointed to his head. ‘Years of sticking that fucking poison in his veins.’
‘Howard’s dead,’ said Banks.
Greg’s eyes went wide. ‘Is he? Fuck. How?’
‘Overdose.’
Greg sucked on his cigarette again. ‘Had to happen eventually, man.’
‘So how did you operate?’
‘I picked up the stuff, carried it there, usually on the bus, hung out in that filthy old condemned house he lived in for a few days and sold what I’d got to whoever had ordered it, along with maybe some new customers, friends of friends. I got to know people. Regulars, like. A good crowd. But I got pulled.’
‘Pulled?’
‘Yeah. The timing couldn’t have been better, really. It was all a bit chaotic. There was a changeover at the top. Lenny G used to be the big man, top of the tree. Then all of a sudden, he wasn’t. And the next thing I knew, he was dead.’
‘Excuse me, but was Lenny G Leonard Grainger?’ Blackstone asked.
‘I believe that was his full name, yeah,’ said Greg. ‘But we all called him Lenny G.’
‘Found floating face down in the Leeds-Liverpool Canal out Rodley way,’ said Blackstone to Banks. ‘He’d been gutted.’
‘Ouch,’ said Banks. ‘How long ago?’
‘Three weeks.’
Greg seemed to turn pale. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘Just... you know... that he was dead. Gutted. Fucking hell.’