“Right. It’s easy enough if you have a street address in a small village like this, but Windlee Farm isn’t exactly in the village, as you know. It’s over half a mile away from any other houses here. I don’t even know what the address is, myself, or even if there is one. I think it’s on Lyndsdale Road, but that could be wrong. The road changes its name every hundred yards, it seems. And I don’t think there’s a number. Must be a postal code, of course, but I’d be hard pushed to tell you that, either. It’s just known as the Old Farm around these parts. Anyone who wants it knows that. And knows where it is.”
“It’s like my place,” said Banks. “Newhope Cottage. In Gratly. No street address. No street. What did he look like?”
“Medium height, stocky, fortyish maybe, cropped black hair, five o’clock shadow—the kind you get with those special razors—thick lips, fleshy nose, and beady eyes. Moved like the sort of bloke who probably thinks he’s God’s gift to women, if you catch my drift. Flash clothes, too, just a bit too gaudy, if you ask me, and jewellery. You know, gold chain, big rings, that sort of bling. He looked like a bit of a thug, to be honest. And he had an accent.”
“What sort of accent?”
“European. Not French or Italian. Maybe Bulgarian or Polish or something like that. Could’ve been Russian. Who knows? Bit of a harsh edge to it. Guttural. Just the sort we voted to get rid of.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing. Like I said, I didn’t like the look of him, and I don’t like to give out that kind of information about my customers on spec. You never know who you’re telling, do you? Could be planning on burgling the place. Or raping her or something. I don’t know Ray and his missus very well, but they come in here for a drink or two now and then, and they always seemed nice enough to me. This bloke looked like trouble, and Mrs. Cabbot, well, she’s an attractive woman, out there on her own sometimes . . . you know. Like I said, you never know what someone has in mind.”
“That was good thinking,” said Banks. “You did the right thing.”
“Seems as if he found her, anyway, doesn’t it? Maybe I should have reported it straight away. At least told Ray and Zelda, given them a chance.”
“Not your fault.” He must have asked someone else, Banks thought, or driven around until he saw the name on the front of the cottage. Then when he’d found it, he staked out the place from the hollow over the weekend before making his move, probably after seeing Ray leave in the late afternoon. There would be an accomplice somewhere, too. Maybe someone had seen him out on the moorland? You tended to get quite a few ramblers out there on weekends.
“Did you see his car?”
“No.”
“I did,” came a voice from the left.
Banks turned. “And you are?”
“Kit. Kit Riley.”
“Kit’s a regular,” Mick Slater said.
Banks looked more closely. Kit was an elderly man, a bit dishevelled in a grubby, striped rugby shirt, baggy brown cord trousers, and a leather gilet, despite the weather. His white hair stuck out at all angles, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in a week. He had the weather-beaten complexion of a lifelong farmer.
“You saw the car?” Banks said.
“Aye. I were just leaving, like, and he pushed past me, rude as can be. Foreigners. Sooner we’re shut of ’em, the better.”
“But you did see his car?”
“Oh, aye.” Kit paused and glanced down at his glass, which was almost empty.
Banks sighed. Everyone had watched too much television these days, it seemed, and expected something in return for whatever information they gave the police.
Banks nodded to Mick Slater. “Give him what he wants.”
“Ooh, ta very much. I’ll have a whisky, please, Micky, my boy. A double.”
Slater poured the drink. When Banks reached for his wallet, the landlord shook his head, as if to indicate he’d bear the expense. “No, it’s only fair,” said Banks, passing some money over. Slater shrugged and got the change from the till.
“Right then, Kit,” said Banks, after Riley had taken his first sip and smacked his lips. “What kind of car was it?”
Riley sipped some more whisky theatrically before saying, “It were a Ford Fiesta.”
“You’re sure?” Banks asked, heart sinking.
“I know my cars,” said Riley. “I tell you, it were a Ford Fiesta.”
Only the most popular car in the country, with about 100,000 registrations last year alone. “What colour was it?”
“Dark green. Or blue. Hard to tell.”
“You didn’t get the number, by any chance?”
“Stopped writing down car numbers when I was twelve,” Riley replied.
Banks felt a memory rise up from deep in his mind. Sitting on the secondary modern school wall by the main road junction with his best friends, Steve and Paul, writing down the makes and numbers of cars that went by. He must have been about ten or eleven. Why on earth had he thought to do something as pointless as that? Probably because his friends did. But it wasn’t even as serious a pastime as trainspotting, standing at the end of a windy platform in the rain jotting down train names and numbers, then going home and neatly crossing them off in your book with pencil and ruler. There was no book of car numbers, as far as he knew, only pictures and descriptions of models in the Observer’s Book of Automobiles.
It was a pity that Kit Riley had given up the practice so early. Inquiries about a dark Ford Fiesta wouldn’t get very far. It was clear that whoever was looking for Zelda had made no effort to hide the fact. He had gone into the pub on the village high street, obviously rather exotic in his bling, and described Zelda to the landlord. So he clearly wasn’t worried about his description being circulated. Why? Did he think the police were too stupid to trace him? Was he so confident and arrogant that he could afford to do what he wanted right under their noses? Banks had known plenty of criminals who were, who would think nothing of walking into their local, shooting someone they had a grudge against and walking out again. And how did the man know what Zelda looked like unless he knew her? He must have seen her somewhere, or at least seen a photograph of her.
“Is that all?” he asked Kit.
“Aye. Oh, there’s one more thing.” Kit glanced down at his empty glass.
Banks ignored the gesture. “Go on. Tell,” he said.
Riley seemed disappointed, but he knew when he’d gone too far. “There were another bloke with him. Waiting in the car, like. I didn’t get a good look at him, but it wasn’t someone I’d care to meet in a dark ginnel, I can tell you that much.”
9
RAY LOOKED TERRIBLE, ANNIE THOUGHT, WHEN HE ANSWERED the door to Banks’s cottage. And it was hard not to feel hurt at the expression of disappointment that crept over his features when he saw her. She wouldn’t deny that there were “issues” between her and Zelda, but that didn’t mean she wished her any harm. Whatever Annie thought of Ray’s choice of partner, he clearly loved Zelda, and it was good for him to have someone to share his life with. If only she weren’t so damned young and attractive. It was hard to trust anyone as beautiful as her, and Annie lived in fear that she would run off with some young stud and break Ray’s heart. Literally.
“Annie,” he said. “I thought . . . Is there any news?”
“Sorry.”
For a few moments they just stood there staring at one another, then they hugged, long and hard, Ray sobbing on Annie’s shoulder. A little embarrassed, they moved apart and Annie followed Ray through the front room and down the hall, watching his elbows move as he rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands, then through Banks’s kitchen and conservatory. “I was sitting out back,” he said.
“Mind if I join you?”
“I’m not very good company right now, but you’re quite welcome.”
Annie smiled. “Oh, Dad, I didn’t expect you to be good company. After all, it’s not often you are.” She hardly ever called him “Dad” or “Father,” but h
e didn’t react when she did this time. Nor did he react to her little tease.
“My house is swarming with coppers,” he said.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll be respectful.”
They sat down. “Want a drink?” Ray asked.
“No, thanks. I’m not stopping long. Alan told me you were here, and I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
Ray spread his arms, then started rolling a cigarette. “Well,” he said, “as you can see.”
“We’ll find her,” Annie said.
“I think I might have one. A drink, that is.” He left his unlit cigarette on the table and disappeared inside, emerging a few seconds later with a tumbler of whisky.
Annie felt like telling him to take it easy with the booze, but she held her tongue. It would only antagonise him. And maybe a drop or two of whisky wasn’t such a bad idea for him at the moment. “I know you think I don’t like Zelda,” she said, “and I know we got off on the wrong foot, but just put it down to me being silly, my silly feelings. And being overprotective of you. You know I want you to be happy, and if she makes you happy—”
“She does,” Ray said. “You have no idea. Since your mother . . .”
“That’s a long time ago,” Annie said.
“I haven’t forgotten her, love, you know that. I never could. Zelda’s not a replacement, she’s . . . I don’t know . . . a new start for me. Something I thought was way behind me. And beyond. You can’t always be prepared for when things like that happen.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Annie said.
“I’m telling you. It’s true.” Tears welled up in his red eyes again. “I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to her.”
“Oh, Dad.” Annie reached out and touched his arm. “There is some news,” she said. “And another reason I’m here. I just talked to Alan on the phone, and he told me Mick Slater from the Black Bull said there was a bloke in the pub asking after Zelda the other day, or at least someone who resembled her very closely. Said he didn’t tell him anything. Didn’t like the look of him.”
Ray picked up the cigarette, rolled it around between his fingers for a while, then put it in his mouth and lit it. “They think that’s the man who took her?”
“We don’t know,” Annie said. “But we’ll definitely be checking into it.”
“Any idea who he is?”
“No.” Annie paused. “But Alan said it might be a good idea, if you’re up to it, if maybe you could go up there and help with a sketch. Mr. Slater can give a pretty good description for you to work with. Only if you feel up to it. I’ll drive you.”
Ray stood up so fast he knocked his tumbler over on the table and whisky flowed over the sides. “Do I feel up to it? You bet I do. Come on, what are we waiting for?”
“NO, THE nose isn’t quite right. A bit broader. And there’s a sort of bump.” Mick Slater touched his own nose. “Right here, about halfway up. As if it was broken or something. And the lips were a bit thicker.”
Ray got to work with the rubber then put pencil to paper again.
“That’s it,” said Mick. “Now the eyebrows. A bit thicker, too. Not bushy or anything, but not quite so thin. Dark and heavy, and nearly meeting in the middle. A heavier brow. Hairline back a bit. That’s it. That’s him.”
They were in a small office behind the bar, and there was just enough room for Ray and Mick inside, while Banks leaned against the door jamb gazing on from the sidelines. It was always fascinating to watch a master at work. Ray was a serious artist, not a police sketch artist, but he had helped Banks out in that capacity before, and he was good at it. It had seemed only natural to ask Annie to try and get him to help sketch a description of the stranger, with Slater’s help. So far, things seemed to be going well.
Banks turned and glanced around the pub. He had accepted Slater’s offer of a pint of shandy when Ray arrived and was glad that he had. It was getting hot in there, and the sweetness of the lemonade and the bitterness of the beer made a perfect antidote to the heat of the day. The Black Bull was an odd sort of place: dark and dingy on the inside, with an uneven flagstone floor, scratched tables and rickety chairs, but a great summer draw outside with its tables looking out on the village green and a beer garden out back. Unlike the Relton Arms, it had a small playground area and a bouncy castle for the kiddies. Banks could imagine the interior on a dark winter’s night, the locals sitting silently around a blazing fire, dogs dreaming at their feet, while the wind howled and the rain battered at the windows outside. Lock-ins would be common there, and the local bobby would probably be on the inside of them.
Finally, Ray put down the finishing touches and passed the sketch to Banks.
“It’s as good as I can get,” said Slater. “I’m not that great at detail.”
“It’s fine,” said Banks, then glanced at Ray. “Thanks. Look, I have a pretty good idea of who this might be. I’ll show it to a couple of colleagues who will know for certain and get back to you.”
“Is it bad?”
“I’ll check it out, Ray. If I’m right, it’ll help us with the search.”
“Why won’t you tell me now? What don’t you want me to know?”
Banks turned to Slater. “Thanks for your time and trouble, Mr. Slater,” he said. “And thanks for not giving this stranger any information. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep quiet about this until I’ve had the chance to check a few things out.”
Slater nodded, and they returned to the bar with their drinks.
“Why won’t you tell me what you think?” Ray persisted. “Who is it? Why would he want to take Zelda?”
“Because I’m not sure yet,” Banks said.
“But if you’re right, is it bad news?”
Banks took a long pull on his shandy and said, “Yes, Ray. You want me to tell you. All right. If it’s who I think it is, it’s bad news.”
“IT’S PETAR Tadić, all right,” said Burgess, just seconds after Banks had emailed him Ray’s sketch. “Where did you get it?”
Banks told him about Mick Slater and Ray collaborating.
“Brazen bastard, isn’t he?” said Burgess. “If you need any help on this, we’ve got trained experts here we can send up. Negotiators and the like.”
“Thanks, I might take you up on that if we don’t find her soon,” Banks said. “But right now there’s nothing to negotiate. I’d appreciate it if you could find out whether Tadić is back in London, though. And if you find him, bring him in for questioning.”
“We can try. We have a pretty good idea of some of his haunts, but they keep changing. I’ll see what I can do.”
“By the way, talking about haunts, have you ever heard of the Hotel Belgrade?”
There was a brief pause before Burgess answered. “It used to be one of their hangouts, the Tadićs and their crew. Why?”
“No reason. It’s just something that came up.” Banks could hardly tell Burgess that the hotel was mentioned in Zelda’s notebook. “Used to be?”
“Yes. It seems they’ve moved out en masse. We’re not sure where yet.”
“When was this?”
“Less than a month ago.”
“One witness from the village says there was another man waiting in the car for Petar. What about the brother, Goran? Anything on him?”
“Goran hasn’t been seen lately,” said Burgess. “He must be lying low. Probably on holiday in Split or somewhere. These people are always on the move. That’s how they keep a few steps ahead of us.”
“Thanks. Have you got an up-to-date photo of Petar? That might work better than a quick sketch.”
“I’ll check.”
“Great. If you find one, can you send it directly to Adrian Moss?” Banks gave him Moss’s fax, phone, and email. “In the meantime, I’ll have Adrian get the sketch out to the news media, as well as on Facebook, Twitter, and so on. Adrian’s already blasted them with Zelda’s disappearance, so they’ll all have their tongues hanging out for more. And we’ll get cop
ies to patrol cars, beat officers, PCSOs, the lot.” They said their goodbyes and Banks hung up.
Adrian Moss was their media liaison officer, and though he was a bit of a trendy prat, with his wet-look hair and shirt hanging out, Banks had to admit he was very good at his job. If anyone could saturate the media with Zelda’s disappearance and give the press a good story, Moss could. The photo of Zelda that Ray had given them wouldn’t do any harm, either. Most men who saw it would certainly be motivated to find her, and quite a few women, too.
Moss’s only problem was that he didn’t appreciate his own talent for blowing smoke and always seemed to want to give away far more than Banks was comfortable with. He would have his work cut out when the national media horde arrived the following day. Which reminded Banks that Ray would need to be protected from them. The CSIs had finished for the day at Ray’s house, and he had gone straight home from the Black Bull, so Banks had Newhope to himself. He was willing to take Ray in again tomorrow, if necessary, when the CSIs would no doubt turn up again.
On his way home, Banks had made a detour to the station. Moss had already got one of the TV crews set up in the press room, so Banks had recorded a brief impromptu appeal on television for any sightings of Zelda. Now he sat outside his cottage in the mild evening warmth, a glass of wine on the table in front of him.
Why had Tadić abducted Zelda? And why now? Banks wouldn’t have been surprised if Tadić didn’t even remember what he had done to her thirteen years ago. So why was she now suddenly so valuable, or so dangerous, to him?
Banks flipped through the Moleskine notebook again. The last entry concerned a visit to Chișinău at the end of the previous week to see someone called Vasile Lupescu, another demon from her past. There were several lengthy descriptions of the Moldovan countryside, complete with its wineries and peasants in traditional dress, along with old memories of Chișinău. On her flight home, she had written about their conversation, how Lupescu had at first denied setting her up for her abductors, then admitted it, and finally insisted that he had been forced into it by threats against his family. It was a tense and dramatic scene, and it confirmed Banks’s suspicions that the notebook was most likely a record of feelings and inquiries about her past, perhaps noted down for use in a story or memoir of some kind. Zelda clearly felt very strongly about the people responsible for ruining her life—and quite rightly so—and this notebook must be one of her ways of expressing all that, including fantasies about what she would like to do to some of them.
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