Not Dark Yet

by Peter Robinson

  Finally he decided on a long walk interrupted by lunch at the Relton Arms with its spectacular views of Swainsdale below its spacious beer garden, and Zelda had agreed over the phone. There was plenty of room in the beer garden to get an isolated table, and perhaps with a little strenuous walking, the heat of the sun and a cold drink, Zelda might let her guard down. As Burgess had said, if they believed she had done something illegal they would have her in like a shot and interrogate her as long as the PACE rules allowed. But she hadn’t. She wasn’t a criminal, as far as Banks knew, but a victim, and perhaps a witness—to something, at any rate.

  Zelda arrived in Banks’s driveway at the appointed time. He had taken that Monday off, leaving Annie and Gerry to deal with the Blaydon murder and its assorted spin-offs. He had watched the rape video once more over the weekend, still searching for the telling detail, something he might have missed, and all that had happened was that it had sickened him all over again. How on earth, he found himself wondering, could one human being do something like that to another? But he knew he was being naive; he, of all people, ought to have some idea. The thing was, he knew that men did it, but he had no idea why. Unless it was, as one serial rapist had told him: “Because I want to. And because I can.” Could it be as simple as that?

  Human beings did far worse things to one another than what he had just watched. Men routinely raped women during war, as a strategy to unman and humiliate their opponents and signal superiority. It had been going on ever since man climbed out of the primordial swamps, and it would probably go on until his presence on the planet was nothing but a vague memory lingering like an unpleasant smell with no one to smell it. But such thoughts were not for a day like today, and he tried to push them aside, knowing that they only led to that one dark and lonely place he had found himself inhabiting too often lately.

  It was another glorious, sunny day, and a light, cooling breeze alleviated the heat to some extent, which was a godsend to walking in such weather. He hadn’t seen Zelda in a while, so there would be plenty to catch up on. She was wearing shorts, showing off her smooth tanned and tapered thighs, and a white shirt tied at her waist, sunglasses hooked over the top fastened button. Her dark hair hung in a ponytail down her back.

  “Will I do?” she asked.

  Banks looked at her feet and saw she was wearing short white socks and a sturdy pair of trainers. “You’ll do,” he said. “Stylish but road ready.”

  They walked through to the back of the house, where Banks strapped on his small rucksack.

  “What have you got in there?” Zelda asked.

  “Just essentials. Chocolate, apples, bottled water, mobile, Ordnance Survey map, compass, Bluetooth headphones, a book, portable first aid kit.”

  “Which book?”

  “Flashman at the Charge.”

  “We had a Flashman book at the orphanage once. Not that one. It was about the Indian mutiny. It was very funny. What’s this one about?”

  “The Charge of the Light Brigade.”

  “ ‘Onward, onward, rode the six hundred.’ ”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Is it dangerous, this walk?”

  “Of course not.”

  “We are not likely to get lost?”

  “No. I’ve done it dozens of times before.”

  “Are you going to ignore me and listen to music or read your book?”

  Banks laughed. “No,” he said. “I realise it might seem odd to be carrying these things, but I usually walk alone, and I always pack the same stuff. Fresh water and chocolate, of course, but the rest is automatic. Just habit. Sometimes I listen to music, but mostly I prefer the sounds of nature when I’m walking. And sometimes I like to have a rest and sit on the grass and read for a while.”

  Zelda put on her sunglasses. “OK. Lead on.” They headed out of the gate and over the stile on to the footpath up the slope to Tetchley Fell. Single file, with Banks leading the way.

  Tetchley Fell could be a daunting climb, deceptively easy at first, but soon getting tougher with every step as the incline steepened. To get to the top, beyond about twenty-five feet of almost sheer limestone, you needed a few mountaineering skills and some basic equipment. But they weren’t going that far.

  “What did Ray have to say when you told him we were going for a walk?” Banks asked over his shoulder.

  “ ‘Have a good time,’ ” said Zelda. “He’s been involved in a new painting project these past few days, and he doesn’t come up often for air.”

  “And you?”

  “Between projects. Resting, as they say.”

  They walked over a patchwork of fields, saving their breath for the ever increasing gradient. Sometimes they disturbed a group of sheep, which scattered at their approach and stood at a distance, backs turned, as if somehow that would make any danger go away. After a few more stiles, they paused briefly and sat on a drystone wall to drink some water, eat an apple and look back at the view.

  Already it was stunning, the huddled limestone houses of Helmthorpe below, its squat church tower, high street shops with racks of postcards out front and tourists browsing. Beyond the town, the river Swain meandered through the flatlands of the valley bottom, lush and green, speckled with blue, yellow, and purple wildflowers. Further out, the opposite valley side began its ascent, green at first, then culminating in the long grey-gold limestone edge of Crow Scar, like a skeleton’s teeth bared against the clear blue sky, where only a few wisps of white cloud twisted through the air like chiffon scarves.

  “It’s magnificent,” Zelda said. Her cheeks were flushed with walking, and beads of sweat glistened above her upper lip and on her brow. Banks felt that he was sweating like a pig, and it took him a while to catch his breath. His ears were popping, too, though he didn’t think they had climbed high enough for that.

  “How’s work?” he asked.

  “They closed down the department. The others were all serving police officers—NCA, anyway—so they got transferred somewhere else, but I was just a civilian consultant, so my job simply ceased to exist. Made redundant. Unemployed.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Banks said. “I’m sorry. I’d have thought they would want to keep a worthwhile department like that going.”

  Zelda shrugged. “Worthwhile has nothing to do with it. You should know better than anyone that it all comes down to budgets.”

  “The NCA’s never been short of cash, as far as I know,” said Banks. “I doubt that’s the only reason.”

  “It’s not,” said Zelda. “Naturally the death of Mr. Hawkins caused quite an upset, even though they say they don’t suspect foul play. The temporary shutdown was the perfect excuse to cut the department completely.”

  Banks passed her the water bottle. She tilted it and drank. Banks watched her throat muscles move as she swallowed. “I don’t think Danvers and Debs are convinced that there was no foul play,” he said, “but they’ve got no evidence of any wrongdoing.” Zelda passed back the bottle. Banks took several swigs and a few deep breaths of fresh air, then said, “Shall we carry on?”

  Zelda slid off the wall. They were on the Roman road that ran diagonally down the hillside all the way to Fortford, which had been the main settlement in Roman times. It was a stony path, used as a drover’s road now, and had low drystone walls running along both sides broken by the occasional farm gate. It was broad enough for them to walk side by side, which they did. Once they had to slow down when they got behind a farmer moving his sheep across the road from one field to another. He said hello to Banks and asked how he was.

  “Do you know everyone?” Zelda asked when they had passed.

  Banks laughed. “Not quite. But it’s surprising the people you get to know when you do my job.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Take old Tibor there. He had some of his sheep rustled a while back. It was an organised gang, all over the county, so we were involved.”

  “Did you get them back?”

  “Not much chance of that. They we
re probably in Bulgaria by then. Or a butcher’s shop window. Now we even have rustling gangs who butcher the sheep in the field in the dark and take only the meat.”

  “How horrible,” Zelda said. “Tibor? That’s an odd name for a Yorkshireman, isn’t it?”

  “Tibor’s family came over from Poland just before the war to escape the Nazis. We have a long history of immigration in this part of the world, quite a patchwork inheritance, a sort of international brotherhood of farmers. Working the land is a tough job.”

  As they walked on, Banks noticed Zelda glance over her shoulder once or twice, as if to make sure they weren’t being followed. Flies buzzed around their heads, along with the occasional wasp, but other than that, it was mostly silent save for their footsteps and a few birds singing. They saw rabbits running in the fields and, once, a hedgehog curled up among the wildflowers by the roadside. A curlew flew over their heads making its high plaintive trill, and Banks pointed it out to Zelda. Only one couple passed them, going the other way, giving the usual Yorkshire greeting: a nod and a grunt.

  “Nice day,” said Banks.

  The man pointed to the sky. “Aye. Won’t last, though, like as not.”

  After about half an hour, Banks led the way over a stile and across a field to a winding lane. On the way, they got too close to a tewit’s nest and set off a flutter of frightened and angry squeaking. They could see a cluster of low stone buildings ahead, and Banks pointed. “Lunch,” he said.

  Zelda wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smiled, and said, “In the nick of time.”

  “Where did you learn your English?” Banks asked as they headed towards the Relton Arms. “I’m not being patronising. I just mean you seem to have all the idioms and everything. Things people pick up over a lifetime.”

  “I’ve always had a knack for languages,” Zelda said. “I listen. Most of the nuns at the orphanage spoke English, and we had lessons from a very early age. I read a lot. When I was in London and later, at Raymond’s commune in St. Ives, I watched a lot of British television. Not so much now. But I write in English. I even think in English.”

  “I had more than enough trouble learning French at school,” Banks said.

  “Oh, French is easy.” Zelda put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to boast.”

  “No, it’s all right. I just wish I had your language skills, that’s all. I’m envious.”

  They entered the tiny hamlet of Relton, halfway up the hillside, passed the small general store with its Walls ice cream board propped outside and approached the whitewashed facade of the Relton Arms.

  “Ah,” said Zelda. “Now it begins.”

  “What?”

  “You know. The interrogation. The grilling. The thumbscrews. The rack.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, come on, Alan. You didn’t bring me all this way just for the pleasure of my company. You want something. I can tell. You’ve been edgy and evasive all the way here.”

  Banks could have complimented her on the pleasure of her company, but decided it wasn’t appropriate. “I do have a few questions for you,” he admitted. “But that’s all. No thumbscrews. No rack.”

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “And you’re not going to arrest me?”

  Banks laughed. “Should I? Have you committed a crime?”

  “Don’t joke,” Zelda said. “I’m serious.”

  “No, I’m not going to arrest you. Now shall we go inside and order some drinks and food? I could murder a pint, myself.”

  ANNIE MADE her way past the flashing screens, and the pings, screeches, bangs, and screams of a video arcade in full flight at school lunchtime. Negotiating the narrow path between the machines felt like walking the gauntlet, and with so much sunlight outside, she wondered why it was always so dark in these places. Lack of windows seemed to be the answer.

  “Excuse me,” she mumbled, pushing her way through a cluster of lads from Eastvale Comprehensive busy splattering aliens into millions of pieces as they stuffed themselves with Greggs sausage rolls. They shifted only grudgingly, and Annie heard one of them whisper, “Pushy cunt, she must be on the rag,” as she passed by. The others giggled. She chose to let it go. That wasn’t what she was here for. She did, however, turn around and have a quick glance at the speaker, committing his face to memory. Satisfied she would know him if she saw him again, maybe smoking a joint down Casper’s Wynde, she moved on.

  It was turning out not to be her lucky day. Tommy Kerrigan was the only one in the cramped office at the back. The Stan Laurel of the two. She had hoped it might be his brother Timmy, who, though much larger and thereby taking up more valuable office space, was marginally more pleasant. At least he was civil and didn’t give her the creeps the way the long, lugubrious pasty-faced Tommy did, with his milky eye and all. He looked like a cross between a funeral director and a vampire, and though nothing serious had ever been proven against him, he was known to have psychopathic tendencies. He also suffered from halitosis, which was definitely a minus in such a confined space.

  There was room for one small chair on the opposite side of his desk, and Annie shifted some papers and sat down.

  “Well, well, look what the cat’s dragged in,” Tommy said. “Detective Sergeant Annie Cabbot. We’ll have to stop meeting like this or people will talk.”

  “Detective Inspector,” Annie corrected him. Even his voice was annoying, Annie remembered. An affected southern drawl with a nasal edge of Geordie.

  “Well, pardonnez-moi.”

  “You should do something about your clientele,” Annie said. “They’re an ignorant bunch of yobs out there, feeding their faces and insulting your visitors.”

  “They’re not supposed to bring food in the arcade,” said Tommy. “There’s a sign. But what can you do? I’m short-staffed.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Fair to middling. Not that it would interest you much.”

  “Club running OK?” The Kerrigans also owned The Vaults, Eastvale’s only nightclub, on the opposite side of the market square.

  “Like a dream. Pleased as I am to see you again, Inspector, I’m a busy man, so if you could—”

  But Annie beat him to it and slid the enhanced image of the young girl across the desk. “Recognise her?” she asked.

  Kerrigan examined the photograph and passed it back to her. “Should I? It’s not very good, is it? I mean, I probably wouldn’t even recognise my own daughter from that.”

  “What daughter’s that?”

  “Figure of speech.”

  “So the answer’s no?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Only she was present at one of Connor Blaydon’s parties that we know of, the one on 13 April, and we know you and your brother were also there.”

  “We did business with Connor, as I’ve told you. It’s only natural we’d socialise once in a while.”

  “The party looked like fun. I saw you and your brother in some poolside snapshots. There were home movies, too, shot secretly in some of the bedrooms.”

  A flicker of alarm crossed Kerrigan’s features. “What movies?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know? Seems your business colleague’s butler, Neville Roberts, liked to film Blaydon’s guests having a good time. Too good a time, in some cases, if you know what I mean. And you should tell your brother about those thong swimming trunks. Nasty. Constitute a public menace, they do.”

  “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Kerrigan said, “but even if we were photographed, unbeknownst to us and against our will, we did nothing wrong.”

  “Unbeknownst, eh? That’s a long word. Don’t worry, you don’t feature in any of the videos, unless you’ve already paid Roberts off for one. But you were there. Did Neville Roberts ever attempt to blackmail you? Did he have any video recordings to sell to you?”

  “Blackmail? About what?”

  “Those trunks of your brother’s, for a start. And the
drugs.”

  “What drugs?”

  “Or maybe you were in bed with an archbishop?”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Never mind. Back to the photo.”

  Kerrigan glanced at the image again and passed it back. “I still don’t recognise her.”

  “Never seen her in here, or the club?”

  “No.”

  “Are you also sure you never saw her or anyone like her at Blaydon’s parties?”

  “There were always plenty of girls around. But not like her.”

  “So you can tell something about her from the photo?”

  “Enough to know that if I’d seen anyone vaguely resembling her, I’d remember, and I haven’t. Most of the girls were . . . well, models or escort types . . . if you know what I mean.” He sketched an hourglass figure in the air. “Shapely. Curvy. Definitely enhanced, in some cases, if not naturally well-endowed. This girl looks quite natural. You can tell that much even from this photo. So if that’s all . . .”

  “Not quite, Tommy. How young were the girls at these parties?”

  “You’ve seen the videos, so you should know.”

  “Humour me.”

  “They were all over the age of consent, if that’s what you’re getting at. Mostly in their twenties, I’d guess.”

  “Check their birth certificates, did you?”

  Kerrigan gave her a look. “Oh, come off it. It was obvious. They weren’t kids. Most of the girls were strippers and tarts, like, with big tits and legs up to here.” He lifted his arm. “All right if you like that sort of thing, I suppose.”

  Annie knew that Tommy didn’t; he preferred young men, rough trade, if available. “Heard of a woman called Charlotte Westlake?”

  “Course I have,” he said. “Charlie. She’s Connor’s personal assistant. Or she was. Took care of pretty much everything on the business side. Ran errands, organised events, booked entertainers. ‘Indispensable,’ he used to say about her. But she hasn’t been around for a while.”