Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  “She’s the only one left alive,” said Annie.

  “I don’t see the relevance of that remark,” said Randall.

  “Just an observation,” said Annie. “If she had anything to do with whatever’s been going on, three people are dead while you and Mia are still alive.”

  Randall glared at her.

  “I think that’s about it, don’t you?” said the solicitor. “We’ve been very patient, but you’ve obviously wandered into territory that means nothing to my client.” They both stood up.

  “Maybe the question is,” Annie said slowly, “would your name mean anything to her? Maybe she’ll be able to tell us what’s been going on when we find her?”

  Still glaring, Randall followed Liversedge out of the interview room. Gerry dropped her pencil and Annie exhaled. “He’s lying,” she said. “The slimy bastard. He’s lying.”

  THE ARCHIVES on the floor below were always a few degrees colder than the office upstairs. Mrs. Pryce, a large woman of indeterminate age, sat as she usually did, hunched over her desk in her ill-fitting grey cardigan, big glasses enlarging her eyes as she looked up from the computer screen.

  “Ah, Miss Zelda,” she said. “And what can we do for you today?”

  “Nothing to trouble yourself about,” said Zelda waving the folder of photographs. “I just need to go over some of my last month’s filings.”

  “You know where they are.” Mrs. Pryce went back to her spreadsheet, or her game of Candy Crush, for all Zelda knew.

  The archive was a large area divided into rows of shelving, much like a library, with filing cabinets of index cards against the walls. Eventually everything was digitized, of course, but the originals remained there, everything in its place, until a file was closed. The place smelled of old photo-processing fluids from before digital days, and burnt coffee from the pot Mrs. Pryce kept on the boil all day, every day.

  The archive was divided into sections according to processor, so it was easy for her to go over to her own section and locate the file. Rather than taking the folder back to the front desk, near where Mrs. Pryce worked, Zelda thought it more prudent to do what she had to do right where she was, in the stacks.

  It didn’t take her long to locate the photograph, one of a series taken by a field agent who had been following the man in the photo with Keane, the one she hadn’t told Banks about. His name was Petar Tadić, a Croatian thug, and his story began with war crimes, involvement in massacres, ethnic cleansing and systematic rape, then progressed to trafficking in young women for the sex trade, and eventually rising to the dizzy heights of serving in the private army of a Russian oligarch-cum-gangster called Zhigunov Tsezar Pavlovich, or “Ziggy” for short.

  As Zelda knew all too well, Tadić was a cruel and violent man who liked to torture his victims, especially the women, before dispatching them to the hereafter or sending them off to work in his string of brothels. Zelda had had him in her sights for a while, but he could wait. For the moment, it was Keane who interested her. He was handsome, looked intelligent, well mannered, cultured even. She wondered exactly what his role was in the trafficking world. Who did he work for? Zhigunov Tsezar Pavlovich? And what was he doing with a clod like Tadić? Zelda had to assume that it was something to do with documents or provenance, as that seemed to be his area of specialty. But it wouldn’t do to forget that, according to Banks, he was a stone-cold killer, too.

  The two of them made quite a pair, Tadić and Keane, and not only because of the physical contrast—Tadić small and barrel-chested with a shiny bald head and a snake tattoo running down his neck. She wished she could have been a fly on the wall during that conversation. The field agent hadn’t recorded them speaking, or if he had, Hawkins had decided that what they were talking about was on a need-to-know basis, and he didn’t think Zelda needed to know. That happened often enough. He was suspicious of her, not quite convinced, she could tell, as men like him always were about women who had suffered in the way she had. Well, they would both have to live with that.

  She found the folder she was looking for easily enough and flipped through the images, picking the best one. It was unlikely that anyone would be checking, but she still decided it wouldn’t be safe to take the original. Instead, she rested it on an empty space in the shelf, took out her mobile and snapped a couple of images, making sure that Tadić wasn’t included.

  She had just put her phone back in her pocket and was about to return the photograph to its rightful place when she sensed a presence behind her. She turned quickly and saw that Hawkins was standing at the end of the stack, watching her. She hadn’t heard him enter the archive, and she didn’t know how much he had seen.

  “Zelda,” he said, walking towards her. “What is it? Anything I should know about?”

  Flustered, Zelda tried to shove the photo back among the others as she talked, but she didn’t have time. “No. Just something I wanted to look up, that’s all.”

  “Can I help?” he asked, coming close enough to see what she was holding. “Ah, our friend Tadić and the mystery man.”

  “Yes.”

  “Decided you recognize him after all?”

  “No. I just wanted to check and make sure.”

  Hawkins frowned. “It’s not like you to be mistaken,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No. Still a blank.”

  Hawkins studied the photo, shrugged and said, “Well, you can’t win them all, can you?” Then he headed off to the filing cabinets.

  It was just a coincidence, Zelda told herself, but why was her heart still thudding and her hands shaking as she stuffed the photographs back in their folder?

  IT WAS another late finish for the core team, and when Banks suggested a drink in the Queen’s Arms at about half past seven, nobody objected. The pub was quiet that Wednesday evening, and the four of them found a table easily enough. Cyril had finished serving food but offered to serve up sandwiches for anyone who wanted them—which was everyone. The plate duly arrived on the table, a mixture of prawn, ham and cheese and salad, and turned out to be just enough to take the edge off their hunger. Only Banks and Annie were drinking pints of Timothy Taylor; Gerry and Winsome stuck to diet tonic. Cyril’s playlist seemed to center around 1966 tonight, like the Jon Savage book on that year in music Banks had just read. Sir Douglas Quintet were doing “She’s About a Mover.”

  “Randall’s lying,” Annie repeated. “No doubt about it.”

  “The question is,” said Banks, “what do we do about it?”

  “For a start, guv,” said Gerry. “I could do a full work-up on his background. Find out if there’s any dirt. You never know with doctors. They’re pretty good at closing ranks and keeping things quiet when it suits them, but if I could find a chink to get through . . .”

  “Do your best, Gerry.”

  “And let’s not forget Mia,” Winsome added.

  “Ah, yes,” Banks said. “The mysterious Mia. Can I have another look at that sketch, Annie?”

  “Sure.” Annie fumbled in her briefcase and handed a sheet of stiff paper over to Banks. Ray had got together with Neela Mitchell and Colin Fairfax in the student coffee shop and had managed to turn out what they said was a fair likeness of Mia. The plan was to test it against Sarah Chen’s housemates—Fiona, Erik and Fatima—and then show it around the student areas of Leeds and Eastvale to try and locate Mia. Someone might remember her, even know where she lived. Although it would probably be a quicker route, Banks didn’t want her image all over the papers or on TV because that could scare her off, and she might well disappear into the shadows, if she hadn’t done so already. But she had no reason to do so at the moment, Banks thought, as she could have no idea they were trying to find her, or that they had linked her with both Adrienne and Sarah.

  Despite Ray’s grumbling and complaining that the way things were going, his next big show would be called “The Collected Police Sketch
es of Raymond Cabbot” and might not do his reputation a lot of good, he had turned out what appeared to be a finely detailed likeness. Now all that remained was to test it against reality.

  “We can talk to the girls’ friends again, too,” suggested Gerry. “Adrienne’s and Sarah’s. See if any of them remember seeing or hearing of Anthony Randall.”

  “OK,” said Banks. “It’s a good start. Try to find some dirt on the doc and track down Mia. Is there anything more we can do with that phone number next to Adrienne’s name Ken Blackstone found in Sarah’s room?”

  Gerry shook her head. “I’ve been trying to chase it down on and off ever since we got it. There’s no mobile active with that number, so it’s history by now. Certainly turned off, perhaps minus its battery, and sim card most likely destroyed if it was incriminating in any way.”

  “I’m thinking that the way the slip of paper read, it was a contact number for Adrienne, but it wasn’t her everyday number, and we also know that Adrienne had left her regular mobile in her bedsit, and there was nothing of interest on it.”

  “That’s true,” said Winsome.

  “So what does it mean?”

  “That Adrienne had a second mobile?” Annie suggested. “A burner? Like you said at the meeting.”

  “I do hate that word, ‘burner,’ ” said Banks. “It sounds so Americanized.”

  Annie shrugged. “Sorry if it offends your linguistic sensibilities. I can’t think of another one.”

  Banks gave her a look. “What’s wrong with pay-as-you-go? Or disposable? Throwaway?” He picked up a prawn sandwich and took a bite. Sir Douglas Quintet had finished now, replaced by Count Five’s “Psychotic Reaction.” Banks noticed that Cyril had subtly turned down the volume. “Let’s say we’re right about the throwaway phone,” he said. “Why would Adrienne need a different phone from the one she normally used?”

  “Secrecy?” said Annie.

  “About what?”

  “We don’t know. You mentioned drugs before.”

  “What did you find out about the number, Gerry?” Banks asked.

  Gerry sipped her diet tonic and consulted her notes. “It was part of a batch of cheap pay-as-you-go mobiles—not smartphones, by the way, so no Internet capabilities or Wi-Fi, just phone and text—and I managed to discover that they were sent to Argos in Leeds. The city center branch on The Headrow. I got a keen young employee there to track down a few more details for me, but the most I could find out was that it was sold on the ninth of October, along with nine others and as many five-quid top-up vouchers.”

  “Sold to?”

  “No idea, guv. It was a cash sale. But the same person bought the lot.”

  “Damn. Someone was being careful, then.”

  “It’s an unusual number of phones to buy, and not so long ago,” said Gerry, “so I asked my Argos pal to ask around in the store and see if anyone remembered the customer. The person who made the transaction said she thought she remembered it was a woman, but they were so busy she couldn’t be certain. One of DCI Blackstone’s team showed her the pictures of Adrienne and Sarah, but she couldn’t be sure it was either of them.”

  “OK,” said Banks. “Good work, Gerry. We have a date in early October and most likely a female purchaser, possibly Adrienne or Sarah, though our witness can’t say for certain.”

  “Sarah was the one who lived in Leeds,” said Annie.

  “But why would Sarah Chen buy ten pay-as-you-go mobiles, including one for Adrienne Munro?”

  “Why would anybody?” Annie said. “I’m just thinking out loud. Adrienne could have gone to Leeds and bought it for herself.”

  “But it’s one of ten phones bought at the same time, by the same person.”

  Annie shrugged. “All we know is that there was a piece of paper in Sarah’s room with Adrienne’s name and a phone number on it that corresponds to one of ten bought, possibly by a woman, at the Leeds city center Argos. Hardly conclusive evidence of anything.”

  Banks turned to Gerry. “Do we have the numbers of the other phones bought from the same batch at the same time?”

  “Yes,” said Gerry. “And I’ve checked. No activity on any of them. It’s a dead end.”

  “Double damn. Someone’s being bloody smart.”

  “Look at the timing in terms of what we have so far,” said Winsome.

  “Go on,” Banks urged her.

  “The phones were bought on the ninth of October. That’s just a couple of weeks or so after the university year began. It’s also around the time the mysterious Mia disappeared from the scene. HOLMES threw that up.”

  “Are you suggesting that Mia bought these phones?” Banks said.

  “I’m only pointing out a correlation,” said Winsome. “But it’s possible, isn’t it? If she was running some kind of drug courier or sex service. It’s the kind of thing they do. Let’s not forget that Hadfield left his phone at home when he disappeared. Maybe he had a second mobile, too? Maybe ten people did, and when the shit hit the fan somebody rounded them all up and got rid of them.”

  “My head’s spinning,” said Banks. “I need another pint.”

  “My round,” said Annie, and headed for the bar. The place had filled up a bit, couples sitting close together, a group of tourists from the nearby B&B, the usual locals standing at the bar. Bob Lind sang about an “Elusive Butterfly,” and Banks thought he knew what the man was singing about.

  “Mind if I take the last one?” said Winsome, referring to the sandwiches.

  No one objected. Annie came back with the drinks. “Where were we?” she asked.

  “Still searching for answers,” Banks said.

  “Right. By the way, one thing I forgot to mention. It’s probably not important, but the solicitor who accompanied Randall, Brian Liversedge . . .”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s on Hadfield’s contact list, too.”

  “Hardly surprising, is it? It seems as if Laurence Hadfield knew all the local bigwigs and more. Doctors, lawyers . . .”

  “And he’s not in the crime business, Liversedge. He’s a family law man.”

  “He was only there for show, anyway,” said Gerry.

  “Yes,” said Annie. “But why?”

  “They’re obviously thick as thieves,” said Banks. He glanced at Gerry. “Perhaps we’d better do a bit of digging into Hadfield’s other contacts, starting with Brian Liversedge. In the meantime, let’s have a look into the connections we already have here. Maybe something will fly out and slap us across the face. Gerry, you’ve got the most recent HOLMES printout on the links between the people in the two cases, right?”

  “Yes, guv. Right here.”

  “Can you go through it for us, slowly?”

  “Of course. It works best on this diagram.” Gerry laid a sheet of paper on the table, scribbled with circles and arrows pointing back and forth. “What’s missing?”

  They all examined the diagram for a few moments, then Gerry told them. “There’s no connection between Anthony Randall and any of the women.”

  “Yet Adrienne had been at Hadfield’s house. Most likely on or close to the day they both died.”

  “And both Adrienne and Sarah were in their best party clothes,” Annie added. She turned to Gerry. “And we think Randall was lying about not knowing the girls, don’t we? And he phoned Hadfield three times on that Saturday.”

  “That’s a lot of ‘ands,’ ” said Banks.

  “And if Randall was part of it, he’d have a pay-as-you-go, too,” Gerry said. “So why didn’t he use it to call Hadfield?”

  “Why would he?” said Annie. “Hadfield was a mate. He’d be used to calling him on his regular mobile. He wouldn’t think of using the burner for that.”

  “Fair enough.” Gerry nodded and added dotted lines in pencil between Randall and all three women. “Quite a tight little coven, isn’t it, when you look at it like that?” she said.

  “And don’t forget the mandies,” Banks said. “No matter w
hat Randall told you, he’s a doctor. If anyone could get hold of them, it was probably him.”

  “But Hadfield had the South African connection,” said Gerry. “Adele Balter mentioned that he visited Cape Town just a few weeks before his death. And mandies are still more prevalent there than anywhere else. I think it’s a lot more likely that he picked them up from a friendly doctor or client on his trips over there.”

  “So they’re all connected, and three of the five are dead,” said Banks. “Short of finding Mia, which we need to do as soon as we possibly can, I think we’ve got to put more pressure on Randall. He definitely knows more than he’s saying. But how do we do that?”

  “Could you get Ken Blackstone to put someone on him?” Annie asked.

  “I certainly think we can get Ken’s team to help us on this. After all, we’re officially together in this investigation. I’ll talk to him tomorrow, see if I can do something about it.” Banks paused. “Winsome? Something on your mind.”

  “Oh, what? Yes, guv,” said Winsome. “I was just thinking.”

  “It’s encouraged.”

  “Well, I know we’ve been thinking about drugs, and I know I’ve been one of the prime movers in that direction, but what if it’s not? What if it’s something else?”

  Banks nodded. “Sex. We’ve all thought of that angle, too.”

  “Yes,” said Winsome. “What if that was the case? And what if it was organized?”

  “Go on,” said Banks.

  “Well, I doubt the students and the old blokes who want to get them into bed move in the same circles, so what do you do if you’re a rich old geezer and you want to meet a student? Put an ad in the papers or a card in a phone box? I don’t think so.”

  “An escort service?” suggested Annie. “There are plenty of sugar daddy sites online.”

  “Something like that,” Winsome said, “only not perhaps on so grand a scale. Say you want a more specialized service, something more select than an Internet dating site. And say you want to be more discreet about it, you don’t want to leave an electronic trail. This Mia only ever appeared around the universities at the beginning of term, didn’t she, in the case of both Adrienne Munro and Sarah Chen?”