Not Dark Yet

by Peter Robinson

“Widowed. Five years now. Leukaemia.”

  “Yet you still live here alone?”

  Charlotte played with her ring again and glanced around the room. “In this huge mansion. I know it’s too big for me, but I couldn’t bear to leave,” she said. “I know it would make sense. I could sell this place for a tidy sum, buy a nice little flat in Headingley or somewhere and live off the profit. But it’s my home. Gareth and I lived here all our married life. And it’s mortgage-free now. I can just about afford the upkeep as long as I keep working.”

  “How long were you married?”

  “Just ten short years, but I wouldn’t change them for anything.”

  “How did you come to work for Mr. Blaydon?” Gerry asked.

  “I helped organise a gala dinner for him when I first got in the business. I’d known him vaguely on and off for a while. He used the company I worked for before frequently for his business events.”

  “So you go back a long way?”

  “Well, not that long,” said Charlotte. “I’m not that old.”

  “Was he a friend of your late husband’s?”

  “No.” Charlotte paused. “Truth be told, Gareth disapproved of him, of his business practices.”

  “It’s true they left a lot to be desired,” said Annie. “But you gave up event organising to become Blaydon’s PA?”

  “I needed a break, a change. A challenge, even. It seemed like a good opportunity. After Gareth died I had what you might call a fallow period. I needed to get back to work. Connor offered me a job. There was a fair bit of foreign travel involved, which I enjoy, and the duties weren’t too onerous.”

  “Where did the foreign travel take you?”

  “All over. Sometimes Connor had parties or business meetings at his villa on Corfu. I organised meetings in America sometimes, and a convention once in Cape Town.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Annie said.

  “Yes. I enjoyed it.”

  “Did you ever meet someone called Leka Gashi in your travels?”

  “That animal? Towards the end, Connor was mixing with some seriously undesirable people. He said they were important to his property development plans, but if you ask me, they were just using him.”

  “For what?”

  “Contacts, mostly. He’d built up a lot of contacts within the community and the establishment over the years.”

  “What about money laundering?” Gerry asked.

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “I understand that he invited people from all walks of life to his parties,” Annie said. “At least the higher walks. Judges, senior police officers, politicians, clergy, actors, footballers, the odd rock star or two.”

  “Connor collected people. And he liked to be among the movers and shakers, the stars and entrepreneurs. He liked to be seen with them. Photographed.”

  “And Gashi?”

  “He wanted to appear respectable. I would have said it was impossible for a man like him, but he thought that with Connor’s contacts and prestige, some of it would rub off on him. Like the others, he probably thought that knowing Connor would make him appear respectable.”

  “But instead some of Gashi’s criminality rubbed off on Connor?”

  “I don’t know about that. I wasn’t his business manager. He had other people to deal with all that stuff. I never saw him do anything illegal. I just didn’t like Gashi. He was a crude pig of a man.”

  “Was he sexually aggressive?”

  “Not towards me, except with his eyes. But I would imagine so, yes. He was a man used to getting what he wanted, no matter what.”

  “As we understand it, they were old friends. Blaydon had known Gashi for years. Did you know that?”

  Charlotte blinked and gave a brief shake of her head. Her hair danced over her shoulders.

  Gerry glanced at Annie and raised an eyebrow. “What about Petar Tadić?” she asked.

  “Another of Connor’s gangster friends. Fortunately, I didn’t have much to do with him.”

  “We think Tadić supplied the girls. What did you know about the sexual favours?” Annie asked.

  “Nothing. That was purely Connor’s domain. As I said, I did the food, sometimes the entertainment, the ambience, but the drugs and women were nothing to do with me.”

  “You didn’t help Tadić supply girls for him?”

  “God, no. What do you think I am?”

  “You must have known what was going on. Couples disappearing into bedrooms, girls hanging around naked by the pool.”

  “I know there were always plenty of pretty girls about, models and so on, but beyond that I didn’t inquire. And I was rarely present. It wasn’t my business. I just assumed they were WAGs, as I believe they’re called. Many of Connor’s guests had beautiful models or actresses as girlfriends, and some of the wealthy and powerful men had young attractive wives. And the last time I heard, sex wasn’t illegal.”

  “Depends on how old the people involved are,” Annie said.

  “And how willing,” Gerry added.

  “Are you saying the girls were underage?”

  “Some of them look that way,” said Gerry. “Didn’t you notice? Didn’t you think so at the time?”

  “Like I said, I wasn’t there often. And when I was, I hardly paid them any attention. They were just decoration. I had other things to think about.”

  “Of course,” said Annie. “Like making sure everyone’s glass was full.”

  Charlotte stood up. “I’ve had enough of this. I think you should go now.”

  “I must say,” Annie went on, “this seems rather naive of you, assuming they were wives and girlfriends. You don’t strike me as a particularly naive woman. Didn’t you feel uncomfortable, being involved with all those orgies? It wasn’t what you signed up for, was it?”

  “I told you, I wasn’t around for any orgies. Maybe I was burying my head in the sand, not wanting to know why the women were there, or where they came from. But things changed, slowly, subtly. I was starting to feel uncomfortable with Connor’s new friends and ways. When I first started three years ago, things were far more civilised, before Gashi and Tadić appeared on the scene. In fact, I left at the end of April, before . . . before Connor died. I had the opportunity to return to my old line of work in partnership with a friend.”

  “Mrs. Westlake,” said Annie, “Connor Blaydon was murdered. He didn’t just die. Someone helped him on his way. Let’s call a spade a spade.”

  “Gashi.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He seems like the sort of man who would do . . . that.”

  “Kill someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever hear him talk about killing people?”

  “Good Lord, no. He wouldn’t talk like that in front of me. But I’ll bet you he was involved. Either him or one of his little gofers.”

  “Can you help us prove it?”

  “No. I told you, I was involved in getting back into events planning. I didn’t like the company Connor was keeping, the way things were going. There seemed no more . . . moral centre, for want of a better term. Things were spiralling into chaos.”

  “Fair enough,” said Annie. “Please sit down again. We’ve got a few more questions.”

  Charlotte sat down slowly but remained on the edge of her seat, as if she were going to get up and leave the room at any moment.

  Gerry consulted her notebook. “There was a party at Mr. Blaydon’s house on 13 April, this year,” she said. “Were you present?”

  “It’s highly unlikely. As I said, I rarely attended. Let me consult my diary.”

  “Would you do that, please? And while you’re at it, perhaps you could also let us know where you were on 22 May.”

  Charlotte left the room for a couple of minutes and returned with a large desk diary. “No,” she said, holding it open for them to see. “I thought so. I was out of the country the week of 13 April.”

  “Where were you?”

&n
bsp; “Costa Rica.”

  “Costa Rica,” said Annie. “Very nice. Why were you there?”

  “Connor sent me. I was organising an international business conference.”

  “Was that normal?”

  “Perfectly. I told you my job involved a certain amount of travel. Connor was a partner in a new hotel complex development there, and he wanted to bring the investors together with the ideas men and the architects. They all needed to be wined and dined.”

  “Naturally,” said Annie. “Would you have any idea at all who might have been at that party?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Who might know?”

  “Someone who was there, I imagine. Maybe Gashi?”

  “He was there?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Ever heard of someone called Phil Keane? Might have been a friend of Blaydon and Tadić.”

  “It doesn’t ring any bells.”

  “Hugh Foley?” Annie said, remembering what Banks had told her about Keane’s relationship with the murdered Faye Butler.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “And the 22 May?”

  “Nothing specific,” said Charlotte. “Though I think we had a book award dinner to organise in Bradford. I remember it was towards the end of last month.”

  “Would anyone be able to corroborate that?”

  Charlotte gave her a puzzled glance. “Corroborate? Why?”

  “Would anyone?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I’d have been back and forth, setting things up. Someone might have seen me.”

  Annie took the enhanced photo of the girl from the SD out of her briefcase and passed it to Charlotte. “Do you recognise her?”

  Charlotte examined the photo through narrowed eyes and passed it back. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Though I’m not sure I’d recognise my best friend from that. She looks rather the worse for wear.”

  “We think the girl was drunk and possibly drugged,” Annie said. “And though the images are hard to distinguish, the video clearly shows that she was raped.”

  “Raped!” Charlotte repeated. “I don’t know what to say. What video is this?”

  “It appears that Blaydon’s right-hand man Neville Roberts left a small collection of X-rated movies behind.”

  “From the parties?”

  “Mini spy-cams in the bedrooms.”

  “My God. I had no idea that Connor filmed his guests without their permission.”

  “Not Blaydon,” Annie said. “Neville Roberts. Do you know anything about him?”

  “Not much. He was a bit of a dark horse, clearly. I hardly ever talked to him. He was around often, yes, but he was a rather taciturn person, quite surly, and our worlds rarely crossed. He was more of a manservant, really, a sort of butler. Connor liked the luxury. But Roberts had nothing to do with Connor’s business dealings.” She tapped the photograph. “I have to say I’ve never seen anyone in that state at Connor’s house. Not while I’ve been there.”

  “But you’re so rarely there,” Gerry reminded her.

  “Yes. Even so. I always thought that whatever went on, they still remained fairly wholesome and civilised.”

  “A sort of Playboy Mansion thing?”

  “If you like. Not that I’ve ever been to a Playboy mansion.”

  “You’re doing it again. Pardon me, but isn’t that a little naive? Especially as you mentioned things spiralling into chaos.”

  “Perhaps. As I said, I was fast becoming disillusioned. Even so, I’m honestly shocked by that picture. This is appalling.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Annie. “As I said, she’d just been raped. We have the whole thing on a MiniSD card.”

  “No,” Charlotte whispered, hand at her throat. “I still don’t believe it. Did Connor do this?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know . . . I . . . you said it was one of his parties, you’re asking me about it . . . I don’t know . . . I just . . .”

  “Unfortunately,” Gerry said, “this is the closest we can get to a likeness of the victim. As you say, it’s not very good. And there are no usable facial images of the man involved. Was this an ordinary party or a themed one?”

  “Ordinary, I think. At least I don’t remember any mention of a theme.”

  “You’re sure you don’t recognise her?”

  “I’d tell you if I did.”

  “She didn’t work for you behind the scenes or anything?”

  “I honestly can’t tell from that photo.”

  “We’d really like to find out who this girl is,” Annie said, “and it goes without saying that we’d like to catch the man who raped her. If you remember anything, however insignificant it seems to you, please let us know.” She passed Charlotte a card. “And we’d appreciate a list of names. Any guests you might remember, especially badly behaved ones, and the names and addresses of your employees who attended that party.”

  “Of course.” Charlotte stood up again and touched her hair.

  She showed them out and they saw her standing at the bay window watching as they got in the car. “What do you think?” Gerry asked.

  “For all her shock and outrage,” said Annie, “I don’t think she was telling us everything she knew.”

  “I got the impression that she was holding back, too. Maybe I should have a look into her background?”

  “And there was something else,” Annie said.

  Gerry headed for the ring road. “What?”

  “She never even offered us a bloody cup of tea.”

  “SO YOU’RE absolutely sure no one from the NCA or Immigration Enforcement is following Zelda, or making enquiries about her past?”

  “I told you, Banksy,” said Burgess. “I’d know. And they’re not. Danvers and Debs aren’t convinced that Hawkins wasn’t bent, but they don’t think Zelda had anything to do with his death. They just want to know why she was poking around asking questions about him. What you’ve just told me about the Phil Keane problem should settle that line of inquiry for them. She was clearly doing it to help you.”

  “Have they been talking to immigration about her?”

  “Not their style.”

  “So I can tell Ray there’s nothing to worry about?”

  “Yes. At least nothing that I know of.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  “No problemo. See you later.”

  At least he didn’t say “alligator,” Banks thought as he hung up. Burgess’s Americanisms were a bit hard to take sometimes, especially when they were archaic, too.

  So that was that. First Banks had told Burgess the details of his talk with Zelda, then Burgess had told him how he was certain she wasn’t being targeted. He would find time to pop by and see Ray and Zelda together tomorrow morning and give them the good news. If Zelda was suffering from paranoia about the immigration process, nothing he said would cure that completely, but at least it would set Ray at ease and put him in the right state of mind to be there for her.

  It was almost eight o’clock. After the phone call, Banks got in his car and picked up a Chinese takeaway in Helmthorpe, and before doing anything else, he tucked into his spring rolls, chicken fried rice, and garlic shrimps in the kitchen, drenching them with lashings of soy sauce and washing it all down with simple tap water.

  It was another mild evening. After dinner, Banks took George MacDonald Fraser’s Flashman at the Charge outside, along with a glass of Côtes du Rhône Villages, and sat in his lounge chair facing Tetchley Fell to read for a while.

  At first, it was enough just to sip his wine and feel himself unwind as he gazed on the fellside with its criss-cross patterns of drystone walls and enjoyed the gentle breeze on his skin. The breath of wind took the edge off the heat and carried the sweet, dry smell of fresh-mown grass with it, along with a hint of wild garlic and mint. The green fields on the gentle lower slopes slowly gave way to sere grass higher up, where he had walked with Zelda, and finally to outcrops of grey limestone at the top l
ike Henry Moore sculptures shining with an unexpected golden hue in the evening sunlight. Occasionally a sheep bleated way up on the hill, and the swifts made their graceful loops and spirals in the sky. There seemed to be fewer of them this year, he had noticed.

  Often when Banks watched the aerial ballet, he thought of Bob Dylan’s line about a bird never being free from the chains of the sky. He had also been recently discussing some of Dylan Thomas’s poetry with his informal tutor, Linda Palmer, over Sunday lunches up at Low Moor Inn. As far as he was concerned, the jury was still out on the boozy, bardic Welshman, but he had loved the music of “Fern Hill,” whatever the words meant, and the line “I sang in my chains like the sea” had stuck with him. It was similar in meaning to the other Dylan’s observation, he thought.

  But it didn’t do to overanalyse too much. He had learned that from Linda. Poetry wasn’t something to be translated or decoded into a “message,” the way it had been taught at school. True, some poems were overburdened with learning and literary allusion, and they needed some level of exegesis, but most poems meant what they said and said what they meant in the best way, often the only way, possible.

  It had certainly been an interesting day. First the walk with Zelda, then Ray’s angry visit. He knew that Zelda had gone away annoyed at him for pressing her on matters she would rather have kept to herself, no matter how hard he had tried to be understanding. The thing was, he still wasn’t certain that she had told him all she knew. She was holding back about something, but he didn’t know what it could be. She had told him only things she thought he already knew, or might suspect. Yes, she had come clean about seeing Keane with Hawkins and asking questions about her late boss, and she had told him about finding Faye Butler, and how that had led to a dead end. But had it? For some reason, he thought, there was more. And he couldn’t forget that Faye Butler had ended up dead—tortured and murdered—not so long after Zelda’s visit to her.

  Ray’s concerns also worried him. It was natural enough that Ray would see possible immigration and residence problems as the main source of Zelda’s anxiety and depression, but Banks wasn’t convinced. Yes, she was worried about being deported back to Moldova, but he didn’t believe that was all that was worrying her. He remembered the times during their walk when she had looked over her shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed. Who else did she think was after her? Her old abductors and abusers? But why? Surely they had lost track of her by now. It was also unlikely that Tadić and his like would even remember Zelda, let alone recognise her after all these years. She was the super-recogniser, not him. But until she was willing to talk even more openly, he realised that he wasn’t going to find out anything else. And he was still no closer to Phil Keane than he had been when Zelda had first mentioned seeing the photo of him with Tadić, before last Christmas.