‘The Hewitts have had to use the media to keep their daughter’s name in the public eye, haven’t they?’
‘It’s a two-edged sword. You don’t get owt for nowt from those bastards.’
‘And what role did Bill play?’
‘As I said, he was just a glorified consultant, really.’
‘He’s not been implicated in the hacking business?’
‘Bill? Good lord, no. Though some days it seems we’ve all been tarred with same brush.’
‘So it’s unlikely to be connected with his murder?’
‘I can’t see how it could be. Nothing’s changed. Rachel still hasn’t been found. Her parents insist she’s being kept alive somewhere, but we’re all pretty certain she’s dead. Thing is, it haunted Bill. I don’t think he ever quite got over not solving it, not finding her. He was convinced she was already dead, of course, but I think he wanted to provide the parents with some sort of explanation, proof, some positive outcome. A body, for example.’
‘Anything else I should be looking at?’
‘Just the usual. Dozens of petty villains, domestic killings. What you’d expect from a long career in detective work. He’s put away burglars, murderers, muggers, embezzlers, gangsters and hard men. None of them stand out much except for Harry Lake, and maybe Steve Lambert, that big property developer, the one who paid someone to murder his wife about three years ago.’
‘I remember that one,’ said Banks. ‘Didn’t he claim someone broke in, and she was stabbed while interrupting a robbery?’
‘That’s right. Appeared to have a watertight alibi, too. The usual citizens above suspicion. But Bill stuck at it, followed the money trail, found the bloke he’d hired, along with a strong forensic connection to the scene. It was a solid case in the end, and Lambert went down swearing revenge.’
‘But he’s still inside, isn’t he?’
‘If he hired someone to kill his wife...’
‘Long tentacles?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. Mostly what we should look at first, though, is anyone he put away who’s actually come out recently, and anyone he’s pissed off who’s still wandering free.’
‘There’ll be a few. I’ll see if I can narrow things down a bit for you.’
‘Appreciate it, Ken.’
‘All this... Sorry. Bill was a mate, that’s all. It’s getting to me.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry, too. What about more recently? What was he working on when he died?’
Blackstone finished off his drink and stared at the empty glass. ‘Well, as you know, he was off duty for a couple of weeks with his neck problems before he went into St Peter’s, and before that he had a couple of weeks leave after Sonia... you know. Before that he was working with a specially formed city-wide team of detectives on a long-term surveillance and intelligence-gathering mission.’
‘What was it?’
‘Just the tip of the iceberg. It started with a gang of loan sharks. They operate around the poorest estates in the city, mostly targeting new immigrants, as often as not illegals, asylum seekers or unregistered migrants who still owe a bloody fortune for their staff agency fees, transport, lodgings and food. And, in some cases, for the risk of smuggling them in. Some of them live in dormitories in converted barns, or what have you, outside the city, but a lot of them have managed somehow or other to get hold of council houses, illegal sublets from fellow countrymen, mostly. Of course, the jobs they were promised and had to pay so much for didn’t materialise, or they ended up cleaning out pig sties or public conveniences for ten quid a week. Unless they’re attractive girls, of course, and then...’
‘I get the picture,’ said Banks. He thought once more of Quinn’s photographs, the young girl, and how she reminded him of a young girl some years ago, involved in the case during which his brother had been murdered. That girl had been trafficked from Eastern Europe, along with many others. It still went on.
It was going to be tricky, broaching the subject of Quinn’s infidelity and susceptibility to blackmail to Ken, but it had to be done, gently or otherwise. Sometimes, Banks felt, it was best to jump right in and dodge the retaliation, if it came. ‘We found some photos of Bill Quinn with a young girl — and I mean young, Ken — hidden in his room.’
‘Sexual?’
‘Well, they weren’t taken at a vicar’s tea party.’
‘And what do you make of this?’
‘I’m not sure, but blackmail comes to mind.’
Blackstone thrust his head forward. ‘Are you suggesting that Bill was in someone’s pocket?’
‘No. I’m asking you if you think it possible that he was being blackmailed. I assume that he wouldn’t have wanted his wife to know, and I doubt that he’d have said anything to his friends.’
‘Sonia? She’d have kill— No, he wouldn’t have wanted her to know. Sonia was a naive, trusting soul. Bill was always very protective towards her. He genuinely loved her. Something like that... well, it would have devastated her. And if you’re asking does it surprise me that he had a bit on the side, yes it does. Very much.’
‘Nobody’s judging him, Ken.’
‘But they will. You’re starting already.’
‘Ken, I’m investigating his murder. I need to know. Surely you, of all people, can understand that?’
Blackstone ran his hand over his sparse hair. ‘Shit. OK. I know. It just...’
‘Did he play away from home?’
‘No. I was only away from home with him once. A conference in Lyon, France. Interpol. Christ, he was only human. He’d look, like the rest of us. Married, but not dead. He’d watch them walk by, sitting at a cafe or somewhere, look a bit wistful. We both did. For crying out loud, there are lots of pretty girls in Lyon.’
‘But he didn’t get up to anything?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Would you have known?’
‘I wasn’t his keeper, if that’s what you mean. We didn’t share a room. We weren’t together twenty-four hours a day. But no, I don’t think he did. I think I would have known. When were they taken, these pictures?’
‘We don’t know. Has he been anywhere since his wife died? Any conferences, holidays?’
‘Are you bloody joking, Alan? It was only a month ago. The man was shattered. A wreck. There’s no way anything like what you’re talking about happened between Sonia’s death and now.’
‘OK. Appreciate it, Ken. Was he working undercover on this loan-sharking case?’
‘No, it was all quite open and above board. The chief villain’s a bloke called Warren Corrigan. Small-time crook, really, or at least he started that way. Has his office in the back room of a pub called the Black Bull in Seacroft. Fancies himself as a sort of latter-day Kray. You know, man of the people, pillar of the community, tray of tea from Mum. We’ve got him down for a few assaults, demanding money with threats and so on, but nobody will talk. Everyone’s too scared. We’ve got two bodies already that we’re not entirely sure he didn’t have something to do with, but we can’t prove anything.’
‘Bodies?’
‘Yes. Suicides. They finally cracked under the pressure of their debts, according to friends and family. But more than that, nobody will say. The most recent was a trafficked Romanian girl with needle marks up and down both arms. Fifteen years old. The girl. She couldn’t turn enough tricks to pay the interest. We’ve been trying to contact her parents.’
‘Shit,’ said Banks. He thought of the girl in the photographs again. At least from what he had been able to make out, she seemed healthy enough, and most likely older than fifteen, though sometimes it was hard to tell. No visible needle tracks, but then the quality of the photo wasn’t that sharp. ‘Does this Corrigan have any connection with the people-trafficking, the drugs?