Not Dark Yet

by Peter Robinson

  “I can’t see how that was anything to do with me,” Banks said. “We talked, yes, but I didn’t say anything to upset her. What did she say to you?”

  “She wouldn’t explain. She just said you interrogated her, humiliated her, as if she was a criminal. We had a row. Then she just went off to her studio and banged around. I’ve got a bloody lecture to give at Leeds Art Gallery tonight, so I left her there to stew. What’s it all about? You must know something.”

  “Ray, sit down.”

  Ray sat on one of the spindly chairs around the table on Banks’s lawn. Birdsong filled the brief silence, and Banks hoped it would help to inject an atmosphere of calm. “Drink?” he asked.

  Ray shook his head, then said, “Go on, then. Just the one won’t do any harm. Got any beer?”

  “I think I might have a couple of bottles of Stella in the fridge.”

  “That’ll have to do, then.”

  Banks went and fetched Ray a bottle of Stella and a glass of iced water for himself.

  “Not indulging?” Ray asked.

  “Just thirsty from messing about in the garden,” Banks said, then leaned forward. “I didn’t interrogate Zelda,” he said. “We talked about some of the things she’s done to help us find Phil Keane and where it led her. And some of the things she hadn’t told me. Maybe I was a bit annoyed that she hadn’t shared this with me before, but I can’t see why it would upset her so much. I’m sorry if it did. She was a bit quiet and jumpy when she left me, but that’s all.”

  “What was it all about?”

  Banks sipped some ice water. “Believe it or not, Ray, I was trying to help her out. There are some cops down in London who would dearly like to talk to her about various things, but an old mate gave me the chance to get in first. The softer option. Believe me, they wouldn’t have been as easy with her about it all as I was.”

  “About what?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But take it from me—Zelda may have made one or two foolish moves, but as far as I know she hasn’t committed any crimes.”

  “Well, thank the Lord for that.” Ray buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “She’s been having a hard time lately. I’m worried as hell about her.”

  “But why? I thought things were going well for you.”

  “They are. Or so it seemed. I don’t know what it is. That’s why I—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be blaming you. I just thought you might have an explanation for her moods.”

  “What moods?”

  Ray slouched in his chair and guzzled beer from the bottle. Banks listened to a blackbird singing and admired the view of Tetchley Fell while Ray collected his thoughts. He could make out a couple of tiny figures way up on the top of the fell, walking the edge. Banks had been up there on a number of occasions and remembered how pure the air was and how invigorating the exercise. Even a climb as far as the Roman wall, where he had gone that morning with Zelda, was exhilarating.

  Ray took some Rizla papers from his pouch of Drum and rolled a cigarette. He glanced up at Banks as he did so and said, “Just tobacco.”

  Banks shrugged.

  Ray lit the cigarette with a disposable lighter. Condensation was forming on his bottle, pooling at its base on the table. Banks hadn’t seen him for a few days and thought he was looking tired. Even so, you’d never think he was in his seventies, despite the straggly grey beard, bandana, and grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He resembled Willie Nelson, but with fewer wrinkles. Normally he had the drive and energy of a man twenty years younger, but not today.

  “Come on, then. Give,” Banks said. “What’s up? What’s the real reason you wanted to see me, apart from the pleasure of knocking me into the middle of next week.” Banks could hear faint strains of Schubert’s “Das Heimweh” coming from inside the cottage. Ray was clearly too distracted to notice or he would surely have made some comment on the choice of music.

  Ray looked sheepish. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Bit of hyperbole. I’m a pacifist at heart.”

  “Not to worry. Is it a police matter?”

  “With Zelda? Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  Ray took a drag on his cigarette and a pull on his beer. “She’s got something on her mind, Alan,” he said. “This past month or so, ever since I got back from my big American trip. Since she got made redundant. She’s been distracted, paranoid, jumpy, on edge. Anxious. She disappears into her studio for ages.”

  “She said the same about you.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Any idea what the cause is?”

  “Not really. I’ve been thinking it might have something to do with Immigration Enforcement. You know she has to apply for this pre-settled status because she’s been living here under five years? Can you believe it? She has to fill in some long form, and it’s been giving her a lot of grief. They want stuff like P60s or P45s, utility bills, council tax receipts, passport stamps, proof of where she’s been and when, bank statements and so on.”

  “Well, surely that’s not a problem? The NCA would be able to supply details of her employment.”

  “She thinks they’ll just wash their hands of her now the unit’s been shut down.”

  “No. They don’t work like that. Besides, she should still have plenty of evidence to show how long she’s been over here.”

  “Everything’s in my name,” Ray said. “The payments just come out of the bank automatically. Before we met she was practically living on the streets.”

  “Surely they would understand that?”

  “You and I might think so. But she’s been trying to live under the radar.”

  “She said the same thing, but I didn’t understand why.”

  “Circumstances. It’s partly her past, the Soviet legacy. Lists, interrogations, secret police, all that sort of thing. It’s anathema to her. She’s got a dodgy French passport, but she’s from Moldova. I didn’t know it, but Moldova isn’t even a member of the EU. That means she’s not technically an EU citizen. She’s not sure how well her French passport would hold up to scrutiny. She assures me it’s not forged or anything, it’s the genuine article, but she’s still not comfortable about it. I try to talk her down, you know, tell her not to worry, but it’s not easy. She’s convinced they’re looking for a reason to chuck her out of the country, especially now she’s unemployed. And not only because of all this Brexit rubbish. She thinks those two coppers who hassled her about her boss’s death are behind it, took a dislike to her, dug into her past and didn’t like what they found.”

  “Paul Danvers and Deborah Fletcher? Yes, I got an inkling she wasn’t too happy with them when we talked this morning. They’ve got nothing to do with Immigration Enforcement.”

  “Zelda’s got a bee in her bonnet about them. Thinks they’re all in cahoots. Like I said, she’s been acting paranoid. She thinks people are following her. She said they know things about her past, about the sex trafficking and all, and they could make it seem like she was a prostitute, an undesirable alien. She doesn’t like to talk to me about the old days, so I don’t push it. Oh, I know the big picture, what happened to her, and I know something big happened in Paris that changed everything, but I don’t know what. Even when I can get her to talk about the past she’s vague about it. Always skimpy on the details. Croatia, too, and Serbia.”

  “You can’t blame her, can you?” said Banks. “The things that happened to her. She probably wants to forget, put the past behind her as best she can, the way our parents did with the war. It just sounds like she’s having a bout of uncertainty and anxiety, what with Brexit and losing her job. I’m sure it will work itself out in time.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Maybe she’ll run into problems with Immigration Enforcement and maybe not,” said Banks. “I’ve heard the Home Office can be pretty nasty when they want. Or even stupid. Sometimes they don’t do anything when they really should. But it’s not as if she’s likely to be a burden o
n the state, is it, even if she is unemployed? And she did work for the government. They owe her something. Think about it. We’re not exactly a nation without a heart.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past those fascist bastards these days.”

  “Ever the sixties firebrand, Ray.”

  “Someone has to be.”

  “I read the Guardian, too, Ray, but I don’t take it that seriously. Maybe you should try the Mail or the Telegraph as well and get a different perspective, figure out perhaps the truth lies somewhere between.”

  “Traitor. I think I’ll stick with Private Eye.”

  Banks laughed. “There you go again.”

  “She’s even been talking about wanting to move to Italy or Greece.”

  “And you?”

  “I love Italy and Greece, but I love Britain more. It’s my home. Besides, I just moved from Cornwall to Yorkshire. I don’t want to move again. I’m too bloody old. And there’s Annie to consider. We’ve had a couple of arguments over it, Zelda and me.” He paused and rolled another cigarette. “But if they treat her badly . . . I’ve considered getting an Irish passport, you know, to make travel easier if we do have to move or spend more time out of the country.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “My mother was Irish. Annie’s grandmother. Country girl from County Clare.”

  “I never knew that.”

  “Hell of a woman,” said Ray. “Tough as nails. Ask Annie. They adored one another.”

  “I will.” Banks drank some more water. It was already too warm. “I really don’t think Immigration Enforcement are after Zelda, though I could be wrong. They don’t confide in me. More likely it’s just a figment of her imagination.”

  “Is there any way you can find out? Put our minds at ease.”

  There was one way Banks could think of: ask Dirty Dick Burgess.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said. “In the meantime, just try to carry on as normal. Whatever her problem is, she needs your support more than ever.”

  CHARLOTTE WESTLAKE lived on a quiet tree-lined street of large detached houses in Adel, near Alwoodley in North Leeds. Gerry parked the car on the opposite side of the street, and she and Annie walked up the path by a well-kept lawn surrounded by colourful flower beds. It was early Monday evening. The house itself, half hidden by a fat old oak tree with a gnarled trunk, was an ordinary enough combination of stone and red brick, with a bay window on the ground floor and a dormer in the slate roof.

  Annie rang the bell, and a few seconds later a woman answered. She was casually dressed in tight-fitting designer jeans and a white fuzzy top with a scalloped neckline. She was slender and tanned with expensively coiffed blonde hair tumbling in bouncy corkscrew waves over her shoulders. Sometimes Annie found herself wondering why some women paid a fortune to arrange their hair in exactly the kind of tangled mess her own naturally aspired to. This was one such moment. Annie pegged Charlotte as about forty, with smooth skin, high cheekbones and the kind of figure she would have had to work out at the gym at least three times a week to maintain. Annie felt immediately aware of her own failed determination to lose the ten pounds she had put on recently.

  They showed their warrant cards, and Charlotte Westlake invited them in. Annie noticed gold embroidery around the shield-shaped back pockets of her jeans as she led them through to the back of the house. A glassed-in area like a conservatory, but still an integral part of the large open-plan living room, it overlooked a lush and rambling garden, complete with birdbath and gazebo, on to Adel Woods, a vast expanse of woodland, open meadows and heathland popular with walkers, cyclists, and joggers.

  “What a lovely view,” said Annie.

  Charlotte inclined her head regally. “Yes,” she said. “One never tires of it, no matter what the season. Please, sit down.”

  Annie and Gerry sat in comfortable armchairs facing the windows, and Charlotte sat opposite them.

  “Can I ask you what this is about?” she said.

  “Of course. It’s to do with Connor Clive Blaydon.”

  “Ah, yes. Poor Connor. Such a sad loss.”

  Annie was surprised by the comment but held her tongue. As far as she was concerned there was nothing “poor’ about Blaydon, and he was no great loss to humankind. “We understand you were Blaydon’s personal assistant,” she said. “What exactly was your role?”

  “Just what you’d expect, really. Pretty much whatever came up. I helped him organise his busy schedule, reminded him of appointments and meetings and so on. Fielded requests I thought he wouldn’t want to be bothered with. Smoothed ruffled feathers, oiled creaky wheels, calmed troubled waters.”

  “Good Lord,” said Annie, “I wish I had someone like you to organise my life for me.”

  Charlotte laughed. “Maybe you should try it?”

  “On a copper’s salary? You must be joking. What about Blaydon’s parties?”

  “Them, too. Invitations, catering, drinks, performers sometimes—you know, a string quartet, DJ, or a rock band, that sort of thing. I used to be an events organiser. Am again, as a matter of fact.”

  “Do you have any of these old invitations?” Annie asked.

  “No. I’m not speaking literally, you understand. I didn’t exactly address envelopes and lick stamps. We never sent anything by post. It was all fairly casual. Connor would give us a list of names, then my secretary would either phone, text, or email.”

  “Pity,” Annie said. “Do you remember the names of any of the people who attended?”

  “It varied. I remember some of the more famous people, of course, and I can name you a few media people and local politicians. Tamara took care of most of it.”

  “Tamara?”

  “My secretary.”

  “Is she still around?”

  “I suppose so. She lives in Eastvale, I think.” Charlotte paused. “Why do you want to know? The parties were pretty exclusive, but some of the most valued guests brought friends or colleagues, business people they wanted to impress. You could hardly refuse them entry. And there were gatecrashers on occasion, or people who had fallen out of favour trying to sneak back in. I suppose what I’m saying is there’s no real written record of everyone who attended them. There was a lot of word of mouth. Connor’s parties were very popular, sort of like an exclusive luxury nightclub.”

  “I’ll bet they were,” said Annie. “Who manned the door?”

  “Roberts. He could be quite diplomatic when required to be.”

  “Did you usually attend?”

  “Me? Hardly ever. My job was done by the time the parties started. I had staff members working behind the scenes making sure everything went smoothly, and some making sure everyone’s drink was topped up, the canapés didn’t run out, and nobody was stuck alone in a corner. They chatted with guests, worked the room, helped make people feel at home.” She laughed. “Glorified waitresses, really. I was usually in touch by phone over the evening in case there were any glitches, but there rarely were. Sometimes I’d drop by if there was a special event, like live music I wanted to hear, or a theme night.”

  “Theme night?”

  “Yes, Connor had themed parties, too, sometimes.”

  “Fancy dress?”

  “Sort of. Roman times, sixties, twenties flappers, that sort of thing.”

  “Fancy dress and period behaviour?”

  “Who knows what they got up to? If I did drop by, it would never be for long.” She twisted a ring on her middle finger. “And certainly not to spy. Why are you asking me all this? What’s going on?”

  “Who made sure that the cocaine dishes remained full?” Gerry asked.

  “So that’s it.” Charlotte spread her hands. “I’d be a liar if I said that I didn’t know there were drugs around, just as there were sexual favours being given, and taken, but I can assure you I had nothing to do with either. I’ve told you. My work was behind the scenes.”

  “Boys will be boys,” Annie said.

  Charlotte shrug
ged.

  “But were you ever present when drugs were taken?” Gerry asked.

  “Surely you can’t arrest me for that?”

  “I’m sure we could find a charge without resorting to making something up if we wanted to.”

  “Connor was my employer,” said Charlotte. “It wasn’t my place to criticise his habits. You may judge me wealthy on the basis of this house, but I’m not a rich woman. I needed to work. Still do.”

  “You mentioned events organising?” Annie said, in a move to get Charlotte off the defensive.

  “That’s right. I’m a partner in an events organising company.”

  “What kind of events?”

  “All sorts. Mostly corporate. Product launches, gala dinners, parties, retirement dos, presentations, AGMs, conventions. You name it. Pretty much anything except weddings. I hate weddings. They’re too much of a nightmare, and there are plenty of other companies around to deal with them.”

  “How did you get into the business?”

  “I suppose I drifted there. It was something I found I had a knack for—finding the right venue, the right band, or DJ if either was required, working with a chef on a menu, keeping costs down—whatever was required.”

  “Was that your background?”

  “Good heavens, no. I was fortunate enough to attend Oxford. I studied Economics and Management at St. Hilda’s. I suppose you could count that as a bit of a background.”

  “Cheltenham Ladies College?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Where on earth did you get that idea? No, nothing like that. Just a Halifax comprehensive. Though I did get a scholarship.”

  “So you went into the business straight from university?”

  “Not quite. After three years of studying I felt I needed a break. Let my hair down. I went travelling with some like-minded uni friends.”

  “Where did you travel?”

  “All over. First the Far East. Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Then we spent some time bumming around the Mediterranean.”

  “Sounds exotic. Are you married?”