Not Dark Yet

by Peter Robinson

  For the moment, though, Annie tried to concentrate on Timmy Kerrigan. “Timmy,” she began, “first of all, you should know that this is simply an intelligence interview. You’re not under arrest and you’re not being charged with anything, OK?”

  Timmy nodded and his chin wobbled. “I rather thought so,” he said, glancing around the room, “seeing as I haven’t done anything. But why the dull decor?”

  Annie smiled. “You’d be surprised how it concentrates the mind. No interruptions. Can we start?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  “You were at a party thrown by Connor Clive Blaydon at his home near Harrogate on 13 April this year, right?”

  “If you say so. We’ve been to a few of Connor’s parties, Tommy and I. He’s a good friend. Was. I can’t remember the exact dates.”

  “Now, we have evidence that a young woman was raped at that party, and we’re trying to find out who did it.”

  “Well, don’t look at Tommy and me.”

  “We know that Tommy has—what shall we say?—other interests, but as for you . . .”

  “Whatever you’ve heard, it’s a vicious lie,” Timmy protested.

  Annie had heard rumours of his interest in young girls often enough to believe them without further proof, but she realised there was no point in angering him. It was clear from the video, poor as its quality was, that Timmy Kerrigan was entirely the wrong shape and size to have been Marnie’s rapist. “That’s as may be,” she said, “and it’s not our concern at the moment, but what I want to know is whether you saw this girl at the party. Your brother said he didn’t recognise her, but we only had a very poor photo to show when we talked to him.”

  She slid over a print of the photo Mitsuko had AirDropped her. Timmy picked it up and studied it, then nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “I think she was there, but she wasn’t . . . how shall I say . . . part of the entertainment.”

  “She worked for the events organiser in the catering area, mostly back in the kitchen and behind the scenes. But apparently, she brought out drinks once in a while.”

  “That must have been when I saw her. A very pretty girl. Gamine, I’d say.”

  Annie ground her teeth. “Yes.”

  “I do hope she’s all right.”

  “As a matter of fact, she isn’t,” said Annie. “Not all right at all. In fact, she jumped off a cliff and died.”

  “Oh,” said Kerrigan. “That’s a terrible tragedy.”

  Annie almost believed he meant it; it was probably the closest to sincerity that Timmy Kerrigan got. Timmy linked his pink sausage-like fingers on the table. He was wearing a large gold signet ring, Annie noticed, so deeply imbedded in the flesh it looked impossible to take off.

  “Do you know the events organiser?”

  “Charlie? Yes, of course. Though she hates being called that. Charming lady. In fact, she’s organised a couple of private dos for Tommy and I over the last three or four years. Retirement parties and so on. Extracurricular, so to speak. She organised the opening of The Vaults.”

  “I thought that when you retired people, they were in no condition to have a party.”

  Timmy cocked his head. “Very droll. Have you considered a career in stand-up?”

  “I’ll stick with what I’m doing for the moment.”

  “The stage’s loss.”

  “You were at other parties, weren’t you? Earlier in the year.”

  “I suppose you could say we were regulars.”

  “Did you ever notice Charlotte Westlake introduce Marnie to anyone?”

  “No. They seemed to know each other, though. I mean, I did see them talking together in the background on a couple of occasions.”

  “It’s a big house. Where did you hang out?”

  “Tommy and I tended to stick by the pool except . . . you know . . . when nature called. I enjoy a swim now and then.”

  Annie cringed at the mental image of Timmy in his thong trunks. Once seen, never forgotten. “I suppose that was where most of the action was?” she said.

  “The synchronised swimming and so on? Yes, I suppose it was.”

  “I was thinking more of the naked women.”

  “Can’t say as I noticed.”

  “Oh, come on, Timmy. You could hardly fail.”

  “One gets used to these things. Besides, what’s wrong with swimming as nature intended in the privacy of a friend’s home?”

  “So you and your brother sat around the pool, smoking cigars, drinking whisky, and ogling naked women.”

  “That last part is pure invention on your part. I don’t ogle, and Tommy . . . well . . .”

  “Tommy has no interest in naked women?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Blaydon was no doubt a very woke host. I’m sure he catered for all tastes and genders.”

  Timmy giggled. “Very good. Yes. Yes, he did that, all right.”

  “So you saw Marnie on the evening of 13 April?”

  “Yes. I’ve already told you that.”

  “Did you see her with anyone?”

  Timmy thought for a moment, or at least Annie assumed that was why his brow furrowed. “No,” he said. “That’s about it. Except for Connor, of course.”

  “Marnie spent time with Connor Blaydon?”

  “Well, it was his party, after all, wasn’t it?”

  DURING THE day, Banks slept as well as anyone can sleep in a hospital, but—even though he had the room to himself—there always seemed to be something going on somewhere, and it usually made noise. In addition, the nurse kept waking him up to make sure he could be woken up.

  The paracetamol seemed to dull his headache for a while, and whatever they gave him for the nausea worked, too. Just after lunch, as he was trying to relax listening to the Pavel Haas Quartet playing some Shostakovich string quartets, he had more visitors. He didn’t recognise the man with AC Gervaise, but they both looked serious.

  “This is Superintendent Newry from Police Conduct,” said Gervaise. “He’d like to talk to you. He has agreed to my being present during this interview, which I am assured is merely a preliminary. In no way are you accused or suspected of anything.”

  “So why is he here, if there’s been no complaints against me?”

  “Standard procedure,” Newry said. “Given the . . . er . . . unusual circumstances of your adventures.”

  Newry was a small pudgy man in his fifties with thinning hair and a large round head. He looked angry. In fact, he looked as if he were permanently angry: red face, tight mouth, etched sneer. The hospital chair creaked as he sat down. His trousers tightened against the flesh of his thighs.

  “Got your memory back yet?” Newry asked.

  “No,” said Banks. “It’s still a blank. What’s all this about? What’s happened?”

  “The fire investigation officers were able to enter the scene at the water treatment plant,” said Newry. “They found two bodies. Now do you remember anything about how that came about?”

  “Who are they?” Banks asked.

  “We won’t know until the post-mortems have been carried out. To be honest, there’s not much left for her to work on. They were both very badly burned, and as yet we don’t even know if they were male or female. But that’s not the point. Do you remember anything?”

  “No,” said Banks. Zelda, he thought. Please let it not be Zelda. Why did that thought flash through his mind? There was nothing in his memory to justify it, only that he connected what had happened, what he couldn’t remember, with Zelda’s disappearance, which was the case he had been working on. He remembered that. Had she been there, at the treatment plant? Had she been caught in the fire?

  “How I hate these memory-loss cases,” Newry said. “A person could say anything, or nothing, and we’d have no way of proving it. Any thoughts on the matter?”

  “On your suspicions about my memory loss, or on what happened?”

  “The latter will do for now.”

  “I’m told I was knoc
ked unconscious,” said Banks, “and when I came around, I was here in hospital. As far as I know, I didn’t go to the plant for any particular reason, by choice. Why would I? I must have been taken there. By whom, or why, I have no idea.”

  “I understand that,” said Newry. “And your DI Cabbot has already found evidence of your abduction back at your cottage. Your doctor also mentioned marks that ropes made on your wrists, ankles, and throat. It’s what the Americans call ‘hog-tied.’ ”

  “Perhaps that’s why my throat’s sore and my wrists hurt.”

  “I should think so. And I’m sure you can understand why we’re interested in any information we can get right now.”

  “I know what you’re after,” said Banks. “A scapegoat. And it’s not going to be me.”

  Newry raised his eyebrows and glanced towards AC Gervaise. Banks could see she wasn’t happy with what was happening.

  “Any more questions?” he asked.

  “Any guesses?” Newry went on. “As to who it might have been? And why you were taken there?”

  Banks took a deep breath before answering. “As you probably know, we are involved in trying to find a woman who was abducted from her farmhouse near Lyndgarth on Monday. Her name is Nelia Melnic, though everyone knows her as Zelda. We think a Croatian sex trafficker called Petar Tadić was behind that abduction, in collusion with a wanted criminal called Philip Keane. We don’t know why Zelda was taken, unless it was to settle an old score or to stop her from disclosing something incriminating she knew about Tadić, and I have no idea why they should want me, too, if that’s what happened. Unless Keane felt he had a score to settle.”

  “Was this Zelda being kept at the treatment plant? Is that why you went there?”

  “I didn’t go there. I was taken there.”

  “Right. Could that be why you were taken there, then?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Was the woman there?”

  “I have no memory of what or who was there. I don’t even remember being there myself.”

  “Your memory for some things seems pretty good to me.”

  “Yes, it is. I can even remember my own name. But I don’t remember what happened last night. It’s called short-term memory loss, or temporary amnesia. At least, I hope it’s temporary. Ask Dr. Chowdhury. He’ll be happy to explain it to you.”

  “You have a history with this Keane, I understand?”

  “He tried to kill me once, if you call that a ‘history.’ Drugged me. Set fire to my cottage with me inside it.”

  “Something like that stays with you, I should imagine.”

  “Surely the question is whether it stayed with him. Enough for him to want to repeat his attempt. And no, I haven’t been dreaming of revenge for the last ten years.”

  “Do you think Keane was the man who set the fire at the plant?”

  “He has a history of arson, so it wouldn’t surprise me, but I have no memory of anyone starting a fire. I don’t even remember a fire.”

  “You have burns on your ankle and legs. How did you escape?”

  “I don’t know that I did. I mean, I know I must have, because I’m here, but I don’t know whether I was inside the building in the first place, or whether it was burning when I was. Or how I got out, if I did. Maybe I was always where the firefighters found me?”

  “Surely if you were taken to the plant by someone who had a reason, you must have been inside at some point? And there are the burns.”

  “They hardly prove anything. I told you, I don’t remember being inside the building. I don’t know where I was taken. Or why. I don’t even remember being taken.”

  “Yes. Of course. The memory loss.”

  “Take or leave it,” said Banks.

  “As a matter of fact,” Newry went on, “you were inside the building. Forensic tests on your clothing show traces of petrol and dirt and grease from the floor.”

  “You took my clothes?”

  “Naturally. You’ll get them back in due course.”

  “I’m tired now. The doctor says I need rest. Please fuck off.”

  Newry stood up and gestured towards AC Gervaise. “I imagine we’ll be talking again before too long,” he said. “In the meantime, do get that rest, Superintendent Banks, and perhaps your memory will have come back by the next time we meet.”

  “Is that some sort of thinly veiled threat?”

  Newry managed to twist his features into what he probably thought was a smile. “It’s nothing of the kind. Good day.”

  Gervaise waited until the door closed behind Newry before saying, “Was that really necessary?”

  “What? Arseholes like him give me a headache, and I’ve already got a big enough one to begin with. If you ask me, he’s watched too many episodes of Line of Duty.”

  “Even so . . . he’s only doing his job.”

  “He’s already after handing out blame before he even knows what happened. Is that his job?”

  “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

  Banks stared at her. “Not you as well? Bloody hell. I don’t believe this.”

  “All right, all right, Alan. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’d understand, you know, if you didn’t want to tell Newry anything right now, until you’re sure.”

  Banks sighed. “It’s because I don’t know anything, ma’am. Believe me, I wish I did, and when I do, you’ll be among the first to know.”

  AC Gervaise stood up and patted Banks’s arm. “You must be feeling unwell. You’re calling me ma’am. I’ll let you get some rest now.”

  Banks breathed a sigh of relief once he was in the room alone again. Memory was definitely a funny thing, he thought. Little flashes came back, but he couldn’t put them all together into a coherent narrative. At one point when he was talking to Newry, a wave of panic had passed through him, and he heard a voice in his head shouting, “Run! Run!”

  He did remember a fire now, and he also remembered that the voice telling him to run was a woman’s voice. And when Newry had told him about the bodies, he had felt a tremor of fear that one of them might be Zelda’s. But he couldn’t say for certain that it had been her voice, or that he had even been inside the treatment plant, let alone seen her there. Nor did he know where the fire had come from, how it had started.

  And when you can’t remember something, it’s like it never happened, and you can’t believe your memory will come back, because you don’t know you ever had it to lose in the first place, no matter what the doctor said. It was all too confusing. Even thinking about it made his head hurt again. He kneaded his pillows so they propped him up comfortably and leaned back to listen to the “Lento” movement of Shostakovich’s seventh string quartet.

  14

  “WOULDN’T YOU JUST KNOW IT,” SAID ANNIE ON FRIDAY morning. “We get a rare chance to visit a beauty spot and what happens? It fucking pours down.”

  She and Gerry had arrived in Dorset late the previous evening, tired after a long drive, and were enjoying breakfast at the Castle Inn, West Lulworth. Annie, still trying hard to stick to the pescatarian course, if not total vegetarianism, had gone for the kippers, but Gerry was indulging in a rare full English. It was one of the things that annoyed Annie about her—not that she wasn’t a veggie, but that she seemed able to eat whatever she wanted and not put on any weight.

  Outside, the rain sluiced down the mullioned windows, blurring the view of distant hills. They had set off from Eastvale around lunchtime the previous day, after the Timmy Kerrigan interview, and though the weather had been good, the journey had taken them close to seven hours, including heavy traffic around the M18, a quick sandwich stop near Oxford and getting lost in the winding Dorset lanes. After a brief snack and a couple of glasses of wine at the bar, they had both been ready for bed, and Annie had just managed to stay awake long enough to make a couple of phone calls before drifting off to sleep.

  First, she had spoken with AC Gervaise and learned that Banks was spending the night in
hospital under observation and that he seemed to be having problems with his memory. There was nothing she could do to help him right now, not from so far away, though she was glad that she had made time to deliver his mobile and headphones before she and Gerry set off for Dorset. Gervaise had also mentioned that the firefighters had discovered two unidentified charred corpses in the abandoned water treatment plant where Banks had been found. Now Annie was worried that one of them might be Zelda. Ray would fall apart if anything happened to her. She had asked Gervaise to call her again if there were any developments but had heard nothing yet. Last of all, she had called Ray to check up on him and tell him about Banks, without mentioning the burned corpses. Ray had sounded a little drunk, and there was loud music playing in the background: Led Zeppelin, “Dazed and Confused,” one of Ray’s old favourites she remembered well.

  Sergeant Trevelyan turned up outside the inn at ten o’clock on the dot, as he had promised. Annie and Gerry squeezed into his Land Rover, and what would have been perhaps, on a fine day, a pleasant twenty-minute walk, became a five-minute drive in the pouring rain. Luckily, Trevelyan was well-supplied with umbrellas, and when they arrived at their destination he handed one each to Gerry and Annie.

  He was probably in his mid-fifties, Annie thought, maybe a bit old for a local sergeant. Most officers his age would have retired by then. He had a squarish face topped with grey hair worn in much the same style as Boris Johnson. His manner was brusque but friendly enough, Annie thought, especially as they were a couple of interlopers no doubt spoiling the rhythm of his day. She imagined that he was usually in uniform, but today he wore jeans and a light grey windcheater.

  Once on the path, Annie felt the power of the wind as well as the rain. She held her umbrella close and kept her eyes on the muddy ground to make sure she didn’t trip over any undergrowth or a half-buried stone. All this meant she didn’t get to appreciate the beauty of the spot until they arrived at the cliff’s edge, because she had been staring at her feet, but once she looked up, she was impressed. She couldn’t believe she had never been there before, despite having grown up not too far away in St. Ives, Cornwall. And somehow, in the grim weather, with a rough grey sea and white breakers below, it was even more awe-inspiring than she had imagined. They stood on the top of a rugged cliff overlooking a semicircular stretch of beach, deserted at the moment. “Is this the spot?” Annie asked Trevelyan, raising her voice to make herself heard over the wind and the crashing waves.