Not Dark Yet

by Peter Robinson

  “Anything.”

  “Seeing as I won’t be driving home for a while, you can clear some space on your sofa and pour me a large glass of that fine Highland Park right now.”

  AFTER HE finished the whisky, sleep didn’t seem to be an immediate possibility, so Banks left Ray and went to check out the studio again. This time he took a pair of latex gloves from the crime scene kit in the boot of his car so as not to disturb any evidence that the attackers might have left there.

  First, he picked up Zelda’s leather satchel-style shoulder bag, the one she always carried, from the chair. Its contents were as one would expect: mobile phone, keys, purse, and cigarettes—but in addition she also carried a small digital camera, a black Moleskine notebook, a Kindle, and a little white case of AirPods. There were a few other inconsequential odds and ends—paper tissues, tampons, a combination penknife/corkscrew, hairbrush, lipstick, a couple of rollerball pens, and a charger for the iPhone.

  Zelda had a desk in the far corner of the studio, which seemed untouched by the struggle, and on it sat her MacBook along with a small flat-top printer. Banks knew better than to touch the computer, even with his protective gloves on. The CSIs would rush it to tech support for a thorough check. It was easy to lose data inadvertently if you didn’t know what you were doing, and Banks would have been the first to admit that he didn’t. He wasn’t tech-illiterate or a Luddite by any means, but the inner workings of the CPUs and vagaries of internal architecture and configurations of computers were way beyond his grasp.

  He glanced over at the titles on the bookshelf above the desk. As he would have expected with Zelda, there were a lot of literary classics—Dostoevsky, Kafka, Dumas, Flaubert, Dickens, Hardy—along with an odd selection of children’s books, mostly by Enid Blyton, Jacqueline Wilson, and Roald Dahl, and a few Modesty Blaise novels by Peter O’Donnell. There was also, he discovered on further investigation, a half row of non-fiction books concerned with the stories of women trafficked and raped by terrorist groups such as ISIS and Boko Haram, especially Yazidi and Rohingyan women, including The War on Women by Sue Lloyd-Roberts, Dunya Mikhail’s The Beekeeper of Sinjar, and Nadia Murad’s The Last Girl.

  One of the desk drawers was filled with printer paper and spare cartridges, another with a selection of pens and pencils, rulers, and other stationery items. But this drawer also contained some more personal items—photos of her and Ray in happier days, a few sentimental souvenirs from trips they had made together. There was a newspaper clipping about the discovery of Faye Butler’s body, which made sense now that Banks knew Zelda had met Faye. There were also some official papers, including her French passport. It still had a few years left on it, and when he examined the stamps he noticed the most recent was from Chișinău, dated the previous Friday. He knew that was where she had grown up, and where she had first been abducted from, and he wondered what she had been doing back there so recently.

  When he had finished, Banks stood at the centre of the room and opened the notebook. It wasn’t a diary or a journal, but more of a catch-all. There were fragmentary shopping lists, titles of books she wanted to read, quotations from books she had been reading, and memos to herself, as well as poems and story ideas, passages of self-analysis, descriptions of dreams and fantasies. There were also several lengthy descriptions of landscapes: an unnamed stretch of the Croatian coastline, the moorland around Windlee Farm, a view of London from somewhere on the South Bank near Blackfriars Bridge, a London hotel called the Belgrade.

  There were flashes of memory, too, mostly bad—a vicious beating in Ljubljana, a john who threatened her with a knife in Pristina, a failed suicide attempt in Minsk. It made for harrowing reading. In addition, several pieces read very much like fantasies of revenge against people who had harmed her: a pimp in Paris called Darius, Goran Tadić, and someone called Vasile Lupescu. These sections might also be notes towards a story, or stories, she intended to write someday. Zelda was an artistic type and a keen reader; perhaps she had ambitions towards fiction and this was a record of her imaginings.

  Banks hoped the notebook might offer some clues to Zelda’s whereabouts, and he would study it further for that very reason. But it also put him in a difficult position. At the moment, he was the only one in possession of these private musings; if he didn’t include the notebook with the rest of Zelda’s possessions, he would be guilty of withholding evidence. But evidence of what? he reasoned. Fantasising about a murder isn’t the same as committing one. Jotting down notes for a mystery story isn’t a crime.

  Besides, he couldn’t, in all conscience, create more problems for Zelda when she was probably living in terror of her life. He would ask her about the notebook when he found her.

  Without further thought, Banks slipped the notebook in the inside pocket of his jacket and went back to the main house.

  DAWN BROKE early over Lyndgarth Moor, and by the time the sun was up, a semicircle of officers moved slowly west from the isolated cottage. Seen from afar, they could have been grouse-beating but for the police uniforms most of them were wearing.

  Back in the house, Banks and Ray Cabbot sat drinking strong coffee with a fresh-faced AC Gervaise, who had only just arrived smelling of soap and shampoo. Banks had had a fitful night on the sofa and wondered if he looked as bad as he felt, while Ray, he imagined, hadn’t slept at all. His clothes were wrinkled, his eyes blurry and red. Two detectives from the Northallerton HQ at Alverton Court—DS Flyte and DC Bharati—had appeared with the search team and CSIs, and they had already questioned Ray. No wonder the poor bloke was exhausted, Banks thought.

  No one was yet any nearer to finding Zelda or to working out what had happened to her. She hadn’t been seen by any of the night patrols, and though her description had gone out nation-wide, the general thinking was that she couldn’t be that far away. No one would want to risk a long journey with a kidnapped woman and all the possible encounters with police cars and CCTV cameras that might occur. Whoever took her had probably planned it all out in advance and had a place already prepared somewhere in the Dales. Perhaps a deserted farmhouse or ruined barn, Airbnb, or a remote cottage rental. It wasn’t as if there was any scarcity of isolated spots and abandoned buildings out there. It depended on what her abductors planned to do with her, of course. And when they planned to do it.

  The CSIs agreed there had been a struggle in the studio but found no immediate evidence of harm being done to Zelda. The suspect bloodstain turned out to be paint. They were still working out there, collecting trace evidence, fingerprints, and anything else that seemed relevant. The search team had first gone through the house and grounds, even though Ray assured them he had already done so. They were just doing their jobs, Banks told him, and it paid to be thorough, but Ray complained anyway. He must have smoked a whole pouch of Drum, and the front room stank of smoke.

  One positive outcome was that the CSIs were able to determine the direction in which a car had travelled by the pattern of fresh tyre tracks—and it had turned on to the moorland road, an unfenced track, heading westward, deeper and deeper into the wild heathland dotted with tiny hamlets and remote farms. West wasn’t the best way out of the area if the abductors wanted to link up with any of the major motorways. They would have about a two-hour drive over rough moorland terrain to get anywhere, and they probably wouldn’t want to be so exposed for that long. They could have no idea when the hue and cry over Zelda’s disappearance would go up.

  “So what’s next?” Ray asked.

  Gervaise glanced at Banks. “You’re SIO, Alan,” she said. “What do you think?”

  “We’ll see if the early search teams turn up anything,” Banks said, “then we’ll start a door-to-door in the village and out in the dale, asking if anybody saw or heard anything unusual. We’ll also talk to Zelda’s friends and try to find out about anyone who might wish her harm. We don’t know what actual time she was taken yet, do we?”

  “You know I was over at your place late yesterday afternoon,” Ray
said. “About half five, six. Then I drove to Leeds, gave my talk and got back here by about half past ten.” He glanced at Gervaise. “Soon as I realised something was seriously wrong I phoned Alan and he was here in, what, twenty minutes?”

  “If that,” Banks said. “And it was about a quarter to eleven when Ray phoned.”

  “So any time between about five o’clock and ten-thirty,” said Gervaise.

  Ray nodded.

  “Tell me, why did you call Superintendent Banks rather than the police station?”

  “The other blokes asked me that, too. I would have thought it was a no-brainer. I know him. He lives nearby. He’s a mate. And he’s a detective. Made sense to me.”

  “What about your daughter?”

  “Annie? Dunno. I didn’t think of her at first.”

  “Why not? Just because she lives further away?”

  “Not really.”

  “Because she’s a woman?”

  “No. Because she’s my daughter.”

  “You might as well know,” Banks said, “that Annie and Zelda don’t get along too well.”

  “Oh?” said Gervaise, glancing at Ray. “And why’s that?”

  “None of your—”

  Banks cut Ray off. “Plenty of reasons,” he said. “You know families. They just got off on the wrong foot, that’s all. It’s hardly relevant. You don’t think Annie had anything to do with this, do you?”

  “It pays to be thorough and not discount anything,” Gervaise said. Then she smiled. “But no, I don’t think DI Cabbot is a suspect. Though I do think she’s too close to the case to work it in an objective manner. She’s a relative.”

  “Zelda and I aren’t married,” Ray said.

  “A mere technicality,” said Gervaise. “I’m going to keep her on the Blaydon rape case for the time being. DC Masterson, too. You can have DS Flyte and DC Bharati, Alan. Let’s see how this goes today before we have another meeting and decide whether to raise the investigation to another level and bring in more troops.”

  “I think it’s pretty obvious something’s happened to Zelda, don’t you?” said Ray. “Why wait? What do you lot need to get you started, a dead body?”

  “Ray,” said Banks. “Everything that can be done is being done. When we see where we’re going, we’ll know whether we have to allocate extra resources. What we hope is that we’ll have Zelda back safe and sound long before we need to make that decision.”

  Ray rolled another cigarette and gave him a look that said, “Bullshit.”

  8

  “HOW’S RAY REALLY DOING?” ANNIE ASKED OVER A LATE lunch in the Queen’s Arms. “All he told me was that he was coping and not to come over because the house was full of cops already.”

  They were sitting outside, in the shade of a large umbrella, Banks munching on fish and chips and Annie picking away at a quinoa salad. The landlord Cyril stopped short of vegan sausage rolls and plant-based burgers, but this was his one recent gesture towards the rise of healthier eating. Annie was drinking fizzy water and Banks was trying one of the no-alcohol beers, another gesture to modern times. He was surprised how good it tasted.

  “Not so well,” said Banks. “He’s smoking like a chimney and hitting the bottle pretty hard. But it’s true the CSIs are going to be at his house for a while longer. You know what they’re like. I just dropped him off at my place and left him there with a bit of Pink Floyd in the background to calm his nerves.”

  “No ransom demands or anything?”

  “No. Nothing. He’s got his mobile with him, just in case. Besides, Flyte and Bharati are still at the house, and they’re trained to deal with situations like this.”

  “I should go and see him.”

  “Maybe. Give him a little while to decompress first. I wish Winsome wasn’t still on maternity leave. I don’t know Flyte or Bharati well. They seem OK, but . . . let’s just say I could do with DS Jackman.”

  “I know what you mean. I paid Winsome a visit yesterday.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s in excellent spirits. And the baby is a real sweetheart.”

  “I’ll bet she just can’t wait to come back to work, can she?”

  “Dream on.” Annie paused. “You know Zelda and I have our problems, but this is terrible. I hope nothing awful’s happened to her.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s not likely to be good.”

  “What do you think it’s all about?”

  Banks paused for a moment and heard a snatch of “Be My Baby” coming from inside. Phil Spector’s “Wall of Sound.” It reminded him of better times, listening to music on the front step on a Sunday afternoon with his school friends. How good the old Dansette had sounded then. And how exciting the music had been, heard for the first time. Now Spector was in jail for murder and Ed Sheeran was topping the charts. “Either it’s a set-up and she’s done a bunk,” said Banks, “or someone’s taken her.”

  “Why would she fake her own abduction?”

  If Zelda had killed Goran Tadić and felt that his gang had found out about it, that might be one good reason, Banks thought, but he couldn’t tell Annie that. Besides, he still wasn’t convinced by her writings that she had done anything of the kind. More than anything else, she seemed to have been questioning her ability to commit such an act, something even Banks himself had wondered about from time to time. He had killed plenty of people in his fantasies. “I don’t know,” he said. “Last time we talked she told me a few things I didn’t know, about seeing Keane with her boss, and finding his ex-girlfriend, Faye Butler. Remember, I told you he was going by the name of Hugh Foley? But I still got the impression that she was holding back. That there was something important she couldn’t tell me, or wouldn’t. And she seemed anxious, on edge. I didn’t think our conversation was strained, but Ray said she was pissed off when she got home, and they had a row. Maybe I hit a nerve. I think she may be in big trouble. If she did do a runner, it was probably because she felt things were closing in on her and she needed to escape. She might also have been worried about Ray, about him getting dragged into whatever it was. He’s a bit of an innocent, your father, in a lot of ways.”

  “Always was. In his own world. What things might Zelda need to escape from?”

  “I think it’s something to do with what she wouldn’t tell me. Someone was after her. She was always looking over her shoulder.” He laughed. “You know what they say: just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean there isn’t somebody following you.”

  “Who?”

  “That I don’t know. I have my suspicions. It was probably someone from her past. Tadić, maybe. But I’ve no idea why. She’s either crossed someone, or she knows something they’re afraid she’ll tell. The only good news is that they took her alive. They didn’t leave her in her studio beaten or dead, and they didn’t appear to have tortured her. That means there’s a good chance that she might still be alive. I’m hoping the door-to-door and forensics on the studio will give us some sort of a lead. The only trouble is that forensics can sometimes take a long time, and time is one thing we don’t have. All we know right now is that there was a struggle and they drove off to the west, on that unfenced moorland road. That’s an awful lot of area to cover.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  “Not that we can tell. Her computer was still in the studio, and her shoulder bag with her phone, purse, and so on. Passport, too, in a drawer.”

  “Odds are if she did a bunk she’d have taken her passport and money,” said Annie. “She wouldn’t get far without them.”

  “What I thought,” said Banks.

  “So they’ve probably not taken her out of the country.”

  “Depends who we’re dealing with,” said Banks. “No doubt her old traffickers know safe routes out, as well as in. And if Keane, or Foley, is in with them, he could probably fix up a fake passport quickly enough.”

  “Any forensics yet?”

  “Not much. One of the CSIs found six cigarette end
s in a hollow within good viewing distance of Ray and Zelda’s cottage. They’re not Marlboro Gold, which was Zelda’s brand, or Ray’s roll-ups, so whoever took her might have been staking the place out for a while. They’re being analysed.”

  “Have you considered that if Keane is with them, he might also be up here, and you might be in danger? What if he wants to finish what he started?”

  “No, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Banks. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Annie slapped his arm. “I’m just saying you should be careful, Alan, that’s all. And remember, he’s not alone this time.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Annie. “Just because I’m not officially allowed near the case, it doesn’t mean I can’t help you if you need me.”

  “Of course not,” said Banks. “I know that and I appreciate it. Just watch yourself, that’s all. AC Gervaise is bound to have her eye on you. And as you know, with Zelda missing and probably in danger, not to mention Ray on my back, I’m going to have to live and breathe this case, but keep me informed on the rape investigation, too. Anything new?”

  The music jumped forward a few years to Tim Hardin’s “Hang on to a Dream.” Another tortured soul and heroin casualty.

  “We still haven’t identified the victim,” Annie said. “According to Charlotte Westlake, there were no guest lists for the parties, so we’re still stuck with finding out who was there on the night in question.”

  “Do you think this Charlotte Westlake was involved?”

  “I don’t think she’s telling us everything. Though she could hardly be the rapist—that was a man—and I doubt that she facilitated it. She said she was in Costa Rica at the time of the party, and it’s true. We checked. She says she doesn’t recognise the girl in the photo, but that’s not surprising, given its poor quality.”