Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  It was almost time to go back to her hotel. She would have a long shower and then go out to find a restaurant in a neglected backstreet, perhaps Italian tonight. After dinner, she would go back to her room and read, phone Ray, then sleep. Tomorrow afternoon she was heading back home until they called her again.

  Hawkins left a little earlier than usual—most nights he was still there when Zelda left—and almost without thinking, she grabbed her raincoat and hat and hurried off after him. When she got down to the street, she realized she had probably set herself an impossible task, even though she had followed people often enough before. But she spotted his distinctive striped umbrella, and found that if she kept her focus on that, ignoring all the rest, she could follow its progress through the crowds. She stayed well behind him, always the best way if you were the only one doing the following, keeping her eyes fixed on the umbrella as he crossed Charing Cross Road and walked down Old Compton Street into Soho.

  Hawkins turned into Dean Street, which was fortunately busy with early revelers and the sort of people who seem to spend their days and nights hanging out in Italian coffee shops. She noticed Hawkins lower his umbrella just before he turned into the doorway of a fashionable café. She crossed the road and went into a pub from where she thought she could keep an eye on the café entrance without being seen.

  Of course, Hawkins might merge into the slipstream of passersby without her noticing when he came out, but that was a risk she had to take. She bought herself a vodka and tonic and wedged herself into the corner that gave her the best view. She unbuttoned her coat but kept it on, along with her hat, and nobody paid any attention to her. The rain continued, blurring the view from the window, and only a few hardy souls ventured to stand outside and smoke. She thought she would be able to see Hawkins when he came out, though, even through the rain-spattered window.

  “I THINK I believe her,” Banks said to Annie over a pint and lamb vindaloo at one of the many Indian restaurants in Headingley. It was a bright noisy place, full of students dining cheaply on aloo gobi, chapattis and lager. “What about you?”

  “I don’t think she killed anyone,” agreed Annie, “if that’s what you’re saying, but I don’t think she’s telling us the full story.”

  “No,” said Banks. “It was the same with Randall, too. Though in Mia’s case, I think there was a lot of sugarcoating about what she does, and she’s very defensive. Maybe Hadfield and Randall did like a good argument about Brexit with young girls, but I’ll bet a pound to a penny they liked a good fuck even more.”

  Annie nodded. “We could probably do her for pimping.”

  “You were a bit sharp with her,” Banks said. “Did she strike a nerve?”

  “Just strategy,” said Annie, dipping a piece of her naan in the sauce. “I was trying to get a rise out of her, that’s all. I don’t suppose you noticed her flirting with you.”

  “Of course I did,” said Banks. “That can be as useful as getting a rise out of someone on occasion. Besides, it’s an occupational hazard.”

  Annie smiled. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it?”

  Banks laughed. He chewed on a piece of fatty lamb which he thought was far more likely to be mutton. Despite the lights and the conversation, the sitar music was unobtrusive enough, and the waiter only appeared when you needed him, if then.

  “Those two are all we have left,” said Banks. “If we don’t find out what happened that night from Mia Carney or Anthony Randall, we may never find out at all.”

  “Do you think they were involved, the two of them?”

  “Romantically? I doubt it very much. We know that Mia’s inclinations are towards women. Though I suppose she might be bi. Either way, I don’t really see Randall as her type, money or no.”

  “I meant criminally.”

  “It’s possible. The one covering for the other? There could be blackmail involved, too. Certainly the kind of business Mia is in invites it. We think Randall is lying, but we can’t prove it, or place him with Sarah Chen. Mia may know something about that. Maybe we should go over his house with a fine-tooth comb, see if we can find any evidence of Sarah’s having been there? He’s smart enough to clean up, but even the smartest people often miss something. I know Ken’s forensics people are still working on trying to coax evidence out of stuff they collected at the shack. We should be able to get a search warrant for Randall’s property.”

  “What about the others?” Annie asked. “Mia said Adrienne and Sarah weren’t the only girls she fixed up with sugar daddies.”

  “I imagine we can get some more names out of her if we try hard enough, but I’m not sure it’ll give us much help in solving this mystery. The solicitor, Liversedge, was on Hadfield’s contacts list, and there are plenty of others, but that doesn’t mean Mia serviced them all. Besides, even if she did, they’ve probably got nothing to do with our case, or cases. We’re not on some moral crusade.”

  Annie pushed her plate to one side and looked at her watch. “Should we be heading home soon?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Let’s have a coffee first.”

  They chatted over their coffees for a while, mostly about Zelda, Ray and Keane, and Banks showed Annie the photo Zelda had sent him. Then they walked out on to the road, which was busy with traffic heading out of town, double-decker buses carrying city workers home to Weetwood and Lawnswood, or even as far as Bramhope, Pool and Otley. It was still early evening, dry, and the pavements were crowded with groups of students heading from pub to pub.

  As they were heading towards Banks’s car, parked in a side street nearby, his mobile rang. It was Blackstone calling from Elland Road.

  “Just heard from our man,” he said. “Randall’s on the move.”

  “Is he following?”

  “Yes. Are you still around?”

  “We’re still in Headingley,” Banks said. “We’ll stay put until you have some idea of his destination.”

  “He’s heading your way,” Blackstone said. “Driving down Otley Road towards Headingley.”

  IT WAS about an hour later and still raining when Zelda spotted Hawkins come out of the café opposite. He was with someone, and they were saying goodnight, shaking hands. She couldn’t get a good look at the other man as he had his back turned to her. She snapped a couple of discreet shots through the window with her phone before she dashed off the rest of her second vodka and tonic, fastened up her coat and walked towards the door.

  That was when she noticed someone else join the two men. A woman this time. Zelda stayed in the shadow of the pub doorway. From what she could tell through the rain and the layers of clothing, the woman was young and attractive. After shaking Hawkins’s hand, she turned to the other man and the moment he half-turned towards her, Zelda could see from his profile that it was Keane. She snapped a couple more photos, keeping her phone in her hand at hip level and just hoping she had it pointed the right way.

  The woman linked her arm in Keane’s and they set off towards Oxford Street. Hawkins headed in the other direction, towards Shaftesbury Avenue.

  Colored neons reflected on the pavements. Zelda kept her head down and her hands in her pockets and went after Keane and the woman as they continued along Dean Street past the Pizza Express and Pierre Victoire opposite the building site. There were still plenty of people around, despite the rain, mostly coming and going from the Tesco Metro. It didn’t matter if Keane saw her—as far as she knew, he didn’t know who she was—but she hung back because it wouldn’t do to let them know that someone—anyone—was following them.

  Then she was dazzled by the bright lights of Oxford Street, their usual brilliance augmented by the seasonal display. The pavements were crowded with tourists and shoppers. Keane and the woman turned left and walked along slowly, huddled together, stopping now and then to glance in shop windows and exchange a few words. Zelda cursed to herself. They were going bloody shopping.

  She had hoped she might be able to follow them on the tube to Keane�
��s current home, or at least the woman’s, but God only knew how long they would be, or where they would go next. She trailed along for a while, then they turned left at Oxford Circus down Regent Street, still checking out the shop windows, and before she knew it, they jumped into a taxi. She probably had more than enough time to flag one down herself, but the thought of having to tell the driver to “follow that cab” just didn’t sit right. He probably wouldn’t do it, anyway; surely that only happened in movies?

  She realized as the taxi edged its way into the Regent Street traffic and merged into a whole fleet of London taxis that she had more than enough to think about, and now that she knew there was a link between Hawkins and Keane, and that Keane apparently had a girlfriend here in London, it ought to be enough for Banks to go on.

  Besides, she was tired out, soaked through and fed up. It was time to head back to her hotel for that long hot shower.

  15

  BANKS AND ANNIE SOON FOUND THEMSELVES BACK IN the tree-lined lane of stone mansions at an intersection about a hundred yards from Mia’s flat. A light breeze had sprung up, and the high bare branches trembled against the moonlit sky, casting shadows everywhere. Dry leaves skittered across the pavement and rough road surface. The air smelled of woodsmoke and wet dogs.

  Blackstone and DC Musgrave were standing with DC Collier, who had been tasked with watching Randall’s house.

  “What happened?” Banks asked.

  “Randall went into Mia Carney’s building, sir,” said DC Collier.

  “How did he know where she lived?” Annie asked.

  “She brought Randall and Sarah Chen together. Who knows? Maybe she invited them all over to a soirée.”

  “Makes as much sense as anything in this case,” said Blackstone. “Besides, it doesn’t really matter at the moment, does it? The question is, what do we do about it?”

  “Did Mia let him in?” Banks asked DC Collier.

  “Hard to tell, sir. The front door was open, so he didn’t need to ring the bell. After that . . . I don’t know. Should I have gone after him?”

  “No, lad,” said Blackstone patting DC Collier’s arm. “You did the right thing. We’ll take it from here.” He looked at Banks. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Why don’t Annie and I go see what’s happening? Confront them. Unless you’d—”

  “No,” said Blackstone. “Too many cooks. Besides, it was your case from the start, and you’ve talked to her before. You’re familiar with the terrain. DCs Collier and Musgrave and I will take positions at the front and back exits, in case we’re needed.”

  “Thanks, Ken,” said Banks. “Let’s hope you won’t be.”

  “Me, too. Good luck.”

  Banks and Annie walked along the lane towards the large house. It looked sinister against the night sky, with its gothic gables and turrets, roof slates reflecting a hint of moonlight. Banks could see the lights on in Mia’s flat and one on the ground floor. Her living room was large enough to have two windows facing the street, and both were dimly lit, with the curtains open, just as they had been when Banks and Annie had visited earlier. Banks could see the edges of some of the paintings on the walls.

  “What do you think?” Annie asked.

  “Not sure. If they’re in it together, they could be hatching some sort of escape plan, or some way of covering one another.”

  “Or if Randall thinks Mia is a liability . . . Remember, we planted the idea.”

  “Yes. I’ve thought of that, too.”

  “Perhaps we’d better just go up and ask them?”

  “Right,” said Banks.

  They moved closer to the house. The front door was still unlocked. Banks and Annie made little sound as they climbed slowly up to the second floor. Pausing before Mia’s door, Banks strained to hear the sounds of conversation, or argument, but the room appeared to be silent, not even a distant hint of a Chopin nocturne.

  Banks tapped on the door and said, “Mia?”

  No answer.

  He held his breath, Annie beside him. Banks tried the handle. Locked.

  He knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. For a moment, he wondered if DC Collier could be wrong. He said he’d followed Randall from Bramhope and seen him enter the building, but he hadn’t seen him enter Mia’s flat. Maybe he was somewhere else in the house? Maybe he was visiting another tenant? Then he realized that his reasoning was simply a delaying tactic, that Randall knowing someone else in the same house as Mia would be beyond coincidence. Whether they were hatching a plot together or one of them was in danger, it was time to intervene.

  Banks took a few steps back, lifted his leg and snap-kicked the door. It took him two kicks to get it open, then he and Annie hurried inside, where they saw Randall putting something in his bag beside the sofa. Mia was nowhere to be seen.

  “Thank God you’re here,” said Randall.

  “Where is she?” Banks asked, moving forward.

  Then he saw her.

  Mia lay on the sofa, her eyes closed, her clothing disheveled, top torn open.

  “Move away, doctor,” said Banks, shoving Randall back. He bent over Mia. Her skin was cold and clammy, and she was hardly breathing. “Annie, call an ambulance. Tell them we need paramedics fast.”

  “I found her like this,” said Randall. “I think she must have taken something. I was trying to resuscitate her when you burst in.”

  “What were you putting back in your bag when we walked in?” Banks went on. “What have you given her, you bastard?”

  “Nothing. She was like this when I found her. She must have taken an overdose.”

  “You’re lying. Show me.” Banks snatched the bag from him and upturned it so its contents fell all over the glass coffee table.

  “You can’t do that. I’m a doctor. That’s—”

  But Banks was already going through the contents of the bag, and one of the first things he found was a used syringe. “Are you in the habit of leaving sharps in your bag like this?” he asked.

  “I . . . You startled me . . .”

  “What did you shoot her up with?”

  “I told you. Nothing. I was trying to help her.”

  Banks grabbed Randall by the throat and bent him backwards over the sofa. He could hear Annie talking to emergency services on the telephone.

  “Stop it. My back. You’ll break my back.”

  “I can find it, whatever you used. I’m sure there’ll be an empty phial somewhere among this lot. But you can save me a lot of time. It’s over now, Randall. You’ve nothing more to gain.”

  “All right. All right! Let me go.”

  Banks let go. Randall stood up, rubbed his back then straightened his clothes. “Morphine,” he said.

  “How much?”

  “A hundred and fifty milligrams.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “I’ve still got emergency on the line,” said Annie. “The infirmary’s not far away.”

  “Tell them we’ve got a morphine overdose, that she’s hardly breathing. Tell them to inform A&E. And get this bastard out of here.” He pushed Randall towards Annie.

  Annie gave the message over the phone, then cuffed Randall and half dragged him towards the stairs. Banks bent over Mia again. He felt for a pulse first in her neck and then on her wrist, but he couldn’t feel anything. Cursing his lack of first-aid knowledge, he could think of only one thing to do, and that was to keep her breathing at all costs. Gently, he tilted her head back and began mouth-to-mouth.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been doing it before he heard the sirens, then the sound of heavy, fast-moving footsteps on the stairs. A hand touched his shoulder, and a calm voice said, “Move aside, sir. We’ll take over now.”

  Banks flopped back in an armchair and put his head in his hands. “I think it’s too late,” he said. “I think she’s dead.”

  BUT MIA wasn’t dead. Not quite. Banks, Annie and Blackstone paced the waiting area while the doctors gathered around her. Fortunately, Annie had b
een able to tell the hospital over the phone what the problem was, and that it had happened recently. Opioid overdoses weren’t exactly out of the ordinary in a big city like Leeds. Though both paramedics and A&E were prepared, the doctors looked serious as they rushed Mia into the depths of the building on a gurney, and they wouldn’t even deign to answer any of Banks’s questions about her chances.

  “I hate these places,” said Banks.

  “Who doesn’t?” said Annie.

  “They always make me wish I still smoked.”

  “Ironic, that, isn’t it?” said Blackstone. “This is probably exactly where you’d end up if you still smoked.”

  “Very funny.”

  Blackstone’s phone purred. “Yes?”

  Banks heard him grunt “OK” a few times. Finally, he turned and said, “Collier and Musgrave got Randall to Elland Road. They’ve got him waiting in an interview room. Unfortunately, he’s insisting on having a solicitor present. I told them to let him sit and sweat it out for a while.”

  “Liversedge again?”

  “Aye,” said Blackstone.

  “I don’t think he’ll be a problem, do you?”

  “Doubt it.”

  They found a coffee machine, fed it some coins, then sat down with their drinks. The coffee lacked flavor, but it didn’t really seem to matter. It wasn’t a busy night, not like a weekend, but there was a fair bit of bleeding and moaning around the place before one of the doctors came back. She looked about twelve years old and tired beyond belief. Even the stethoscope around her neck looked weary. “We’ve done what we can to make her comfortable and slow down the absorption,” she said. “Naloxone to reverse the effects of morphine first, then activated charcoal to make sure her system doesn’t absorb any more. It was a large dose for someone as small as her, and for someone who isn’t used to opioids. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Not by a long chalk. There’s still a long way to go. Her breathing’s really shallow. We’ll have to intubate her. Who gave her mouth-to-mouth?”

  “I did,” said Banks.

  “You probably saved her life.”