But alcohol helped blur the lines, and in its glow, tears soon turned to euphoria, and the mingled feelings of sorrow and regret had morphed into black humour by the time the third pint came along. It helped that they’d had another, albeit vicarious, success that afternoon: a man caught for a sexual assault in Hull had admitted to also assaulting Lisa Bartlett in Eastvale. A white man.
It also helped that Cyril, the landlord of the Queen’s Arms, was playing one of his most upbeat playlists. Even Ray would have appreciated the inclusion of ‘Lady Rachel’ by Kevin Ayers among the more standard sixties’ fare of The Who, Kinks, Byrds and Stones. Banks slugged back some beer. The Beatles’ ‘And Your Bird Can Sing’ came up next, two minutes of pure joy.
Sausage rolls and pasties appeared on their tables, courtesy of Cyril. It was a quiet night, and he clearly appreciated the business a solved case had brought him. Annie was there, deep in conversation with Stefan Nowak, whom Banks knew she fancied. Gerry chatted away with a very pregnant Winsome, demurely sipping orange juice, her husband Terry beside her. Jazz Singh and Vic Manson had got stuck with AC Gervaise — ACC McLaughlin had sent his congratulations, and regrets — and Banks felt outside it all, watching over them like a founding father. One thing was certain, he was the oldest in the group, though Vic couldn’t be too far behind.
The door opened and Joanna MacDonald walked in, a breath of fresh air. She smiled all around and made a beeline for Banks. He had invited her, but he hadn’t expected her to come.
‘All by yourself?’ she said, sitting down beside him.
‘So it would appear. Drink?’
‘I’ll have a G&T, please.’
Banks went to the bar and got her one, along with another pint of Timothy Taylor’s for himself. The cobbled market square was darkening fast outside, and one or two people still sat drinking and smoking at the tables Cyril had put out. The Beatles finished, and a more subdued Françoise Hardy came on singing ‘All Over the World’ in English. How Banks had lusted after her when he was a teenager. It wasn’t merely her beauty or her voice, but the whole ‘Frenchness’ of it all; her world was exotic, foreign, intoxicating; it reeked of Gauloises and Calvados. Her French version of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Suzanne’ sounded particularly sexy.
Banks carried the drinks back to the table. Joanna took a dainty sip and said, ‘I’ve heard the edited highlights, but maybe you’d like to tell me the full story?’
‘It seems ages since we sat last here and you told me about Blaydon,’ Banks said.
‘I gather he didn’t do it?’
‘No. Not to worry, though. He’s done plenty, and he certainly had a hand in it. We’ll be paying him another visit before too long.’
‘So what happened?’
‘You were spot on about the county lines connection. They were using a house on the Hollyfield Estate. It belonged to an old sixties junkie called Howard Stokes, who let them use it as a dealing centre in exchange for heroin. The whole estate has been condemned to make way for a new development — one of Blaydon’s projects — which I understand isn’t progressing too well.’
‘Why not?’
Banks shrugged. ‘The economy. Austerity. Whatever. It seems people aren’t in a mood for new shopping centres, and his home-building plans didn’t quite match up with the affordable social housing ideas the government has in mind, so there go the grants. It’s on hold, and the investors are getting antsy. Including your Leka Gashi.’
‘So Gashi is involved?’
‘About as deep as you can get. He’s known Blaydon for years, from the Corfu days, and he may even have helped him get rid of his partner Norman Peel, all those years ago. Though we’ll never prove that. But Gashi and his heavies took over the county line from a dealer called Lenny G, who was a pussycat by comparison. He turned up gutted in the Leeds-Liverpool Canal a few weeks ago.’
‘Charming. What’s Blaydon’s part in all this?’
‘I was just coming to that. He’s not directly involved, as far as we know, but he’s business partners with Gashi and does him little favours now and then. Like you said, Blaydon likes to think he’s playing with the big boys. I think Gashi probably treats him like a gofer, but it gives him the criminal’s credibility he seems to crave. That and the drugs and girls it gives him access to. He’s quite famous for his parties. I walked in on one a few days ago.’
Joanna raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’
‘It was a sort of aftermath, really, but quite interesting. The morning after. A few people sleeping, one or two lounging about in the pool, a couple of naked girls, three people having sex in one of the bedrooms.’
‘You sound envious.’
‘Not at all. Especially as the girls were young enough to be his granddaughters. Besides, once you’ve talked to Zelda, you can never be sure that someone like that doesn’t come from a similar background of trafficking and slavery and sexual abuse.’
‘But Blaydon didn’t kill the Syrian boy?’
‘Samir. No. That was a different thing altogether. A different set of unfortunate circumstances. Coincidences, if you like. Of course, the culprits denied it at first, but we got it out of them. We found both their fingerprints matched some on the wheelie bin Samir was dumped in. First Chris Myers, the one who didn’t actually stab Samir, cracked and told us his mate Jason Bartlett did it. Then when we confronted Bartlett with the DNA evidence and his friend’s statement, he broke down and confessed. All above board. Solicitors present, and all. And both are eighteen, so they’ll be facing adult court and adult prison time.’
‘That’s sad.’
‘It is. It’s a great waste. But it’s not half as fucking sad as what happened to Samir. Pardon my French.’
Joanna smiled and patted his arm. ‘You’re forgiven.’
‘It seems Bartlett had taken to carrying a knife ever since his sister was attacked and sexually assaulted on her way home from a school dance over a month ago. Just a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade, but it was long enough and sharp enough to kill Samir. He says he threw it in the river later. There’s not much chance of our finding it. According to his head teacher, Jason Bartlett has got some rather nasty racist views. I read an article he wanted to publish in the school magazine, saw the websites he visits, and it’s true. The usual diatribe against immigrants, especially Muslims and everyone with a darker skin colour than himself. We also found some nasty white supremacy sites bookmarked in his Internet browsing history. Anyway, it seemed he somehow half-convinced his sister that she’d been attacked by a dark-skinned man, even though she maintained at first, and later on, that she hadn’t seen her attacker, not even his hand.’
‘So he was already wound up and jumpy about immigrants?’
‘Yes. Just when you start to think that this generation has got beyond the racism of your own, someone like Bartlett comes along.’
‘It’ll always be around. You know that. What happened on the night of the murder?’
‘Two worlds collided. It was Samir’s first time in Eastvale as a line manager for Gashi. The poor kid had been through hell. I’m not saying he didn’t know he was doing wrong, but these people groomed him and exploited him. So he came up here on the bus with a backpack full of heroin and crack cocaine and headed straight for Stokes’s house. Unfortunately, when he got there, Stokes was dead from an overdose. We think it was either accidental or self-administered, and we may never know which. Anyway, Samir freaked and rang Gashi, who happened to be down in London on business at the time. Gashi phoned Blaydon, who was dining nearby at Le Coq d’Or, and asked him for a favour.’