‘I don’t know. Not with the identification, but maybe with other things.’
‘More coffee? Something stronger?’
Joanna held on to her cup. ‘No. Nothing for me, thanks. I’m fine. Have you ever heard of a man called Blaydon? Connor Clive Blaydon.’
‘Sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t think from where. Just a minute — wasn’t he a mate of The Farmer’s?’
‘The Farmer?’
‘George Fanthorpe. “Farmer Fanthorpe.” A bit before your time, perhaps. Nasty piece of work. On the surface he was a wealthy country squire — owned and trained racehorses; kept a few sheep, rare-breed pigs and cows; operated a factory that made posh cheese for tourists.’
‘And underneath the rustic veneer?’
‘Drugs, guns, prostitution, murder.’
‘Sounds like him and Blaydon would make perfect bedfellows. Where is your Farmer these days?’
‘Inside,’ said Banks. ‘One of my success stories.’
‘Well, on the surface of it, Blaydon’s a property developer. A dodgy property developer.’
‘Is there any other kind?’
‘Yes, well, Mr Blaydon has certainly earned the title. Some of his fixer-uppers make Rachman’s look like the Ritz.’
‘Rachman? I would have thought he was well before your time.’ Peter Rachman was a famous slum landlord of 1960s London, mostly the Notting Hill area. His empire consisted of over a hundred mansion blocks, which he subdivided into flats the size of cupboards and filled with recent immigrants, who were unlikely to complain about the living conditions in the days when signs such as NO BLACKS OR IRISH NEED APPLY were stuck in so many rental property windows.
‘I did History at uni. Contemporary social history is a hobby of mine. The whole twentieth century, really, but more specifically post-World War Two up to... well, the present day, I suppose. Besides, the name came up in my research. That’s why they call us Criminal Intelligence, you know.’
Banks smiled. ‘I always thought there was another reason altogether. Anyway, this Blaydon is what? A Rachman figure?’
‘Sort of. On a larger scale. He started out small but now he’s nationwide. North, south, east and west. Worth millions. He buys up old properties — houses, offices, pubs, even hotels and clubs, you name it — does them up on the cheap and sells them for a huge profit, or if location is the main draw, he clears the site and gets a builder to slap up a few cheap prefabs. He’s also in the buy-to-rent market. Says he’s creating affordable housing, of course, so the council and the government just look the other way. It has also been whispered that one or two members of said councils haven’t been shy of taking a bob or two from him. And if they can’t be bought they can usually be blackmailed or bullied. Same result for Blaydon, however he gets it. Carte blanche. Loads of money.’
‘But that’s what property developers and councillors do, isn’t it? Flaunt the rules.’
‘Cynic.’
‘Why would he take such risks committing real crimes when he’s already made more than most of us would earn in a lifetime from his development business?’
‘He’s already in the kind of business that attracts the adventurer type. You know, always on the go with some scheme or other, uninterested in the feelings of others, lacks empathy, needs excitement to thrive. Elements of the classic psychopathic personality. I think he may also be motivated by greed, a sense of entitlement and invulnerability, maybe a feeling of being above or beyond the law. And perhaps the risk-taking appeals, too. He’s also a gambler, a high roller. Likes to think of himself as a major player. In with the big boys. Who knows? When it comes to the alpha male in full flight... well, all bets are off.’
‘You’ve certainly been hitting the psychology textbooks, haven’t you?’
‘Are you going to take this seriously?’
‘I am taking it seriously.’
‘Sure.’ Joanna glared at him for a moment.
‘Tell me why the recent interest in this Blaydon? There must be more to it than dodgy property developments.’
‘Very perceptive. If you listen, you might find out. Have you heard about that new development at the bottom of the hill, across Cardigan Drive from the Elmet Estate, on what they used to call the Hollyfield Estate?’
‘The Elmet Centre? Yes, I have.’ The pre-war Hollyfield Estate had been in decline for years and was finally due for demolition as soon as all its inhabitants had been rehoused. The plan was to use the cleared land, along with an area of the fields to the west, to build more social housing and a new shopping centre and multiplex cinema complex. So far, it was still at the planning stage, but the rehousing had already begun. Slowly.
‘That’s Blaydon,’ said Joanna. ‘Along with a couple of local lads known as the Kerrigan brothers.’
‘Tommy and Timmy? We’re well enough acquainted with them, but we haven’t been able to prove anything yet.’
‘We know. Anyway, we’ve been keeping a watching brief on Blaydon, and last night ANPR caught his Merc coming into Eastvale at twenty-five past seven and heading out in a southerly direction at around quarter past eleven.’
‘OK. The old lady whose bin we found the body in says she thought she heard someone messing with her bin between eleven and half past, along with a car starting up. Two other neighbours think they heard the same, but we haven’t been able to pin down the time yet. I suppose if it were closer to eleven, it might fit with your ANPR timing. But what’s a dead boy got to do with a dodgy property developer?’
‘Maybe nothing, but bear with me. Nobody saw anything?’
‘Of course not. This is the East Side Estate we’re talking about. Surely you don’t think someone like Blaydon—’
‘Shoved in the blade? No. I doubt it very much. Like most people in his position, he keeps the nasty stuff at arm’s length, uses his minions. But we don’t know who was with him in the car. One thing we have discovered is that he surrounds himself with a number of disreputable characters, ex-cons or ex-special forces, even ex-coppers. Tough guys. Mercenaries. Enforcers. And he’s lost his driving licence, so he never goes anywhere without Frankie Wallace, his chauffeur. And Wallace is an ex-bruiser, trained in the Glasgow gangs. Surely this Farmer of yours had people to do his dirty work for him?’
Banks thought of Ciaran French and Darren Brody, two of The Farmer’s enforcers, who had ultimately contributed towards his downfall. ‘Yes. But you don’t even know that Blaydon himself was in the car,’ he said. ‘All automatic number plate recognition can tell us is that a car with his number plate passed the cameras at a certain time.’
‘I know that,’ said Joanna.
‘Then...?’
‘I didn’t say I had a case or anything, did I? It’s just that we’ve been gathering information on Blaydon over at Criminal Intelligence for quite some time now, and while we have no evidence we could use in court, we’re convinced that he’s involved in a number of criminal activities. Maybe he’s up to something in Eastvale?’
‘More criminal than property development?’
‘As an adjunct. A cover, if you like. We’ve got him connected with a dodgy accountant and a High Street lawyer suspected of money laundering.’