Not Dark Yet

by Peter Robinson

  “Open your mouth.”

  Zelda opened her mouth and felt him enter her. She almost gagged, but managed to stop herself. Instead, she offered a silent prayer to the God she didn’t believe in and bit down as hard as she could.

  IN THAT moment, Banks was certain he was going to die. Then he heard sounds from somewhere deep in the building, upstairs, perhaps. Someone shouting, a banging noise, a chain scraping along a floor.

  Keane smiled. “Sounds as if Petar is having his fun. I must say, he’s a bit of an animal when it comes to the fairer sex. I can’t say I approve. Me, I’d rather wine and dine and seduce a woman than simply take her. Like I did with Annie. How is she, by the way?”

  “Bastard.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Keane said, splashing more petrol over the floor between himself and Banks, who was still feeling too woozy to resist. Even if he hadn’t been trussed up, he wouldn’t have been able to offer much opposition.

  “Tell me about Faye Butler,” he said. “Why did you kill her?”

  “Don’t think this is going to be one of those long drawn-out confessions you get in movies when the hero is about to die,” Keane said. “And don’t think you’re going to keep me talking until the cavalry comes. Nobody’s coming. Faye was collateral damage, that’s all. I didn’t kill her. Maybe Petar got a little overeager to find out what she told your lady friend up there about his business. Like I said, he’s an animal with women.”

  “Did you kill Hawkins?”

  “He was taking Goran and Petar’s money and giving them crap in exchange. They lost a whole shipment of fresh girls because of him. You don’t pull those kind of tricks on the Tadićs and live. They let me prove myself.”

  “Bully for you. What happened to Goran?”

  Keane paused. “You don’t know? You really don’t know? Well, well. I’ll tell you that, at least. Goran’s dead. The girl killed him. Knife. Made a right mess. Petar and the others disposed of his body to prevent a police investigation. Then they carried out their own. Why do you think all this is happening?”

  “Petar’s revenge?” Banks said. “But you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to be a part of it. You disappeared before. You can do it again.”

  Keane paused. “You don’t understand. I want to do this. This is a favour granted me by Petar. And who knows, maybe I’ll pay Annie another visit, too, before I leave here for good.”

  Banks struggled against his ropes, but it was no use. He only felt them tightening around his throat. Keane stood in front of him holding the petrol can. The rest of the abandoned factory was quiet now.

  “Just a little more, I think,” said Keane, and splashed some of the petrol over Banks’s trousers and shoes.

  ZELDA HAD no idea what it would feel like when the knife cut into her neck. She had seen movies where the blood gushed out, but they conveyed no idea of the sensation. Would it hurt? How long would it take? What would dying feel like? Like going to sleep, she hoped. But surely she would find out very soon. His muscle would twitch and the knife would cut her open. The end.

  She felt nothing. No pain. Nothing.

  Tadić screamed, dropped the knife and clutched at his genitals with both hands. Stunned to still be alive, it took Zelda a moment to adjust her perspective. She had expected death, but perhaps now she had a chance to achieve freedom instead. He hadn’t twitched in a reflex action but had instead dropped the knife and moved his hands to the source of the pain, thereby leaving himself open. But she had to act quickly.

  Tadić fell to the floor and his grotesque shadow twisted and turned on the wall. Zelda saw the knife where it had fallen. She stretched her leg as far as she could with the chain still on and reached out her cuffed hands, but it had fallen just outside her grasp. She had no idea how long it would take Tadić to regain control, but she didn’t think she had much time. He was in the foetal position on the floor groaning. It was awkward with her hands cuffed, but she managed to remove her belt, hold it in a loop with both hands and hook it over the knife like a lasso. It just reached. Slowly, she pulled the knife towards her.

  Tadić’s groans were less frequent now, but he was still sliding around on the floor in his own blood. Zelda tossed her belt aside and grasped the knife as best she could with both hands cuffed together. Tadić kicked out, either deliberately or still in agony, and his foot caught her on the shoulder. She almost dropped the knife but instead managed to lunge out with it. She felt it bury itself in his flesh. Now she got to her knees again and plunged the knife in and out of Tadić’s chest and stomach until he stopped moving. It was only then that she saw her first cut had severed his femoral artery in his right thigh, and the blood was still gushing out. She slid back towards the radiator and landed against it, breathless, dazed and miraculously still alive.

  Tadić lay unmoving in the pooling blood, and Zelda knew enough to be certain he would never move again. With some difficulty she tried to saw through her plasticuffs with the knife. It slipped twice and she cut her palm and thumb, but she got free. She rubbed her hands together to get the circulation going, then crawled towards Tadić’s jacket, still lying where he had dropped it on the floor, dragging her leg chain with her. When she got close enough she went through his pockets. Eventually she found his keys, and after several tries found the one that fit the padlock on her leg iron. She was free. Alive and free. She massaged her ankle. But it wasn’t over yet, she felt certain. Tadić hadn’t been alone; there were others. She put on his leather jacket, wiped the knife on his jeans and crept towards the door, holding the blade before her.

  THE WHOLE place stank of petrol. Banks felt his head swimming with the fumes, as if his consciousness were water gurgling down a drain. But the pain in his head kept him awake. For a moment, he couldn’t remember who it was that stood in front of him, and why. Then it came rushing back. It wasn’t a dream. He was in some sort of abandoned factory and Phil Keane was about to start a fire. He imagined the flames slowly creeping over his skin, through to the flesh, and down to the bone. Like most people, he had only had mild burns in his life, but they had hurt enough. How long would it take for him to die? How much would it hurt?

  “I think that’s about enough petrol, don’t you?” said Keane. “Should be a nice little blaze. There’s plenty of combustible material in the building. Probably bone dry after the recent weather. And we’re far enough away from civilisation that there’s not much chance of the fire brigade making it here until there’s nothing left.”

  As Keane talked, Banks fancied he glimpsed movement in the shadows behind him. It was out of the lamp’s range, so he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was just imagining things. Or maybe it was Tadić come to watch the fireworks. But this shadow seemed to be creeping slowly, deliberately, up behind Keane. Surely Tadić wouldn’t do that. Another wave of nausea and dizziness swept through him, and he lost track of the shadow, if there was one.

  “I just have to make sure Petar and the girl get out first,” Keane said, “then I’ll be back.” He took a red disposable cigarette lighter from his pocket and flicked it so it flamed for a moment. “Don’t go away.”

  There was definitely movement behind him. Silent. Slow.

  Then suddenly, Keane seemed to jerk to attention. His hands went behind him and he dropped the can, petrol gurgling at his feet and over his shoes. Then he jerked again and dropped to his knees.

  The next thing Banks knew, Zelda was stepping around Keane’s body and cutting his bonds. Keane moved behind her and she turned around, blocking Banks’s view, so that he couldn’t be sure whether it was her or Keane who struck it, but the lighter flared briefly and Keane’s petrol-soaked clothes went up in flames along with the floor around them. Keane screamed.

  “Run!” cried Zelda, helping Banks to his feet and slapping out a tongue of flame that caught his trouser leg. “Get out! Quick! Run! Run!”

  Banks ran.

  RUNNING WASN’T easy. Banks’s head was bursting, and he kept tripping over himself as he made h
is way through the door and into the night outside, the flames at his heels. It was dark, but there was enough moonlight to see that he had been in an abandoned water treatment plant. The rectangular reservoirs stood before him empty of water and filled only with weeds, ghostly in the moonlight. He ran around the first one and headed for the woods beyond, with no idea of where he was going. He could hear the flames roaring behind him and turned to see how close Zelda was, then stopped in his tracks.

  She wasn’t there.

  The flames were quickly engulfing the building, already eating their way through the roof, but he had to go back. He stood in the doorway and saw there was no way he could go any further inside. Parts of the ceiling were collapsing, the whole floor was blazing, and the fire was spreading fast to every last corner. He called out Zelda’s name but got only the roar of the flames in return.

  He looked towards the spot where he had been tied up and thought he could make out Keane’s burning body, but that was all. So what had happened to Zelda? Why hadn’t she been right behind him? Should he have waited and made her go first? He hadn’t been thinking clearly, couldn’t think clearly because his head hurt and his thoughts were muddled. The heat was too much, and he staggered back towards the reservoir. Before he could stop himself, he fell backwards over the edge into the bed of weeds and felt his head jar against the hard bottom. And there, as the fire raged, he lost consciousness again.

  13

  WHEN BANKS OPENED HIS EYES, HE HAD NO IDEA WHO OR where he was for the first few seconds. It was a fleeting sensation, but terrifying while it lasted. Then he saw he was in a white room, in a hospital bed with stiff sheets. He must have somehow got a private room because there was nobody else near him; nor was there another bed. He could see through the window that it was daylight, though what time it was he had no idea. Someone had removed his watch. But why was he there? What was wrong with him? How had he got here? Try as he might, he couldn’t remember. Had he had a heart attack? A car accident? No, he could feel his heart beating more or less normally, and all his body parts seemed to be in working order except his brain. His head hurt and he felt sick and dizzy. Perhaps he’d had a stroke or cerebral haemorrhage? He could see that he had a line in the back of his hand with a tube leading to a drip of clear fluid on a stand, and there were the usual machines beeping away. Heart rate 80, blood pressure 145/83. That wasn’t too bad, was it? Maybe his heart was beating too fast, but then it always had done.

  He wished someone would come and explain what was happening. The only thing he knew about hospitals was that if there was nothing wrong with you when you went in, there would be when you came out. He also knew that despite all the criticism the NHS came in for in the media, when it came to an emergency, they couldn’t be beat.

  Was he an emergency? In intensive care? He was sure he must have work to do, a case to be getting on with. A case. That rang a bell. He was a detective. He had been on a case. Was that how he had got injured? He could feel bandages on his head. Perhaps some scumbag had coshed him. But why? What was it all about? He couldn’t remember.

  “Ah, good,” said a voice in the doorway. “I’m glad to see you’re back in the land of the living again.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Dr. Chowdhury.”

  He looked about twelve, Banks thought. Surely they didn’t entrust serious injuries to twelve-year-olds yet? “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Eastvale General Infirmary.”

  “What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  “Alan Banks.”

  “Address?”

  “Newhope Cottage, Gratly.”

  “What line of work are you in?”

  “I’m a detective superintendent. A policeman.”

  “What day is it?”

  “No idea.”

  Dr. Chowdhury laughed. “It’s Thursday,” he said. “You had a very lucky escape. You sustained a nasty blow to the back of your head—two blows, actually—and that sometimes causes short-term memory loss, along with other symptoms: dizziness, nausea, headaches. One of the head wounds required a few stitches, but that’s all. Fortunately, there’s no skull fracture, or we’d have whizzed you up to Newcastle or down to Leeds already.”

  “I can’t remember being hit on the head.”

  “That’s not unusual. You have a concussion. It should be only a temporary condition. Your memory should come back.”

  “How long?”

  “Before it comes back? Not long, I shouldn’t think. Days rather than weeks. Maybe even hours. But you need rest.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  “You were brought in at a quarter past two this morning.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s eight o’clock in the morning. You’ve been under observation regularly during the night. We’re always especially careful with concussion patients where loss of consciousness is involved.”

  Banks glanced towards the window again and saw his mobile and Bluetooth headphones on his bedside table. “How did these get here?”

  “A young lady brought them not long ago,” said Dr. Chowdhury. “Said her name was Annie. But you should know that mobile phone use is strictly prohibited in here.”

  Bless her, thought Banks. “Don’t worry, I won’t be using the phone,” he said. “What happened to me?”

  “All I know is that you were brought in by ambulance with a head wound and minor burns to your ankles. There was also some bruising, most likely caused by a fall, and rope marks on your neck, wrists, and feet, as if you’d been tied up.”

  “Burns? Tied up?”

  “Yes, I know it sounds strange. But the burns are nothing serious. We’ve dressed them. As for the rest, it’s superficial.”

  “Where was I brought from?”

  “I believe it was a disused water treatment plant outside Eastvale.”

  “I know that place,” said Banks. “Not from last night. From before. I’ve driven past it dozens of times. I always wondered when they were going to knock it down and use the land for something useful.”

  “Well, it’s gone now,” said the doctor.

  “Gone?”

  “Fire. Burned to the ground.”

  “Why was I there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  A vague memory of flames came into Banks’s mind. It gave him a sudden feeling of nausea. “Zelda,” he said.

  “What was that?” the doctor asked. “I didn’t catch it.”

  “Nothing,” said Banks. He wasn’t certain of the importance of what he’d said yet, himself, so he could hardly explain it to a stranger. “Who found me?”

  “I suppose it must have been the firefighters. They were the first responders at the scene.”

  Banks fell silent. Talking had worn him out already, and he was starting to feel sick and dizzy again.

  “Nausea and dizziness aren’t unusual in cases like this,” the doctor said, as if aware of what Banks was feeling. “That, too, should pass soon enough.”

  “Not soon enough for me,” said Banks. “How long do I have to stay here?”

  “We’d like to keep you in one more night for observation and to conduct some tests.”

  “What tests?”

  “Nothing invasive, don’t worry. A severe jolt to the brain such as you have experienced can cause any number of problems. For a start, we need to test your reflexes and make sure there’s no lasting physical damage. As far as other symptoms are concerned, it’s mostly a matter of self-monitoring over time. I’ll give you a list of things to watch out for. We’d also like to conduct an MRI scan, but for that we’ll have to arrange to take you to the Friarage in Northallerton. We don’t have an MRI machine here. Until then, rest as comfortably as you can. Rest is very important in cases of concussion.”

  “ALWAYS A pleasure to be here,” said Timmy Kerrigan, lifting the crease of his trousers at the
knees as he eased his bulk into the chair and crossed his legs in interview room three. As usual, he was expensively and garishly dressed, this time in a navy bespoke suit over a psychedelic waistcoat, lilac shirt, and green bow tie. Short golden curls topped his round head and, along with his peaches and cream complexion, made him appear quite angelic. Annie had decided to talk to Timmy instead of his brother this time, as he was marginally more garrulous and slightly less unpleasant to be around. But Timmy Kerrigan was a long way from being an angel.

  Gerry was busy digging up whatever she could on Marnie Sedgwick’s background. They had already talked briefly to the ex-boyfriend Rick, who had said he hadn’t seen Marnie since the middle of April. She had become very unreliable and moody, he said, and he had decided to end the relationship and move on. He had a new girlfriend now, a drummer in a local rock band, and she confirmed that Rick had been with her almost constantly since early May. He also said he didn’t know anything about the parties Marnie had worked, and he had certainly never been to one. There was no reason to disbelieve him as he was so far out of Blaydon’s sphere of interest as to be almost non-existent. Unfortunately, they had had no success with the sparse list of guest and employee names Tamara and Charlotte had emailed. People either denied they were present, refused to talk, or said they hadn’t noticed anything. The footballer and guitarist Mitsuko had mentioned said they hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary and had spent most of the evening by the pool.

  Annie was still worried about Banks. The doctor who wouldn’t let her see him earlier that day had assured her he would be fine and his injuries weren’t serious, but he was no more forthcoming than that. She had visited Banks’s cottage as soon as she heard he had been taken to hospital and found his front door open, his mobile and keys lying on the hall carpet. She had picked up the mobile and grabbed Banks’s headphones from the conservatory. She knew he would be insufferable in hospital without his music. The keys she would hang on to until he went home. There wasn’t much more she could do except call the CSIs to check out the cottage.