“Could she be lying?”
“I think she could. There was something a bit suspicious about her reaction to the whole mention of the rape and the minicams.”
“What do you know about her?”
“She used to be plain old Christine Pollard from the local comprehensive in Halifax—though I doubt she was ever plain. Then she got into Oxford. Apparently, she was the one in her year to make it. She drifted into events planning, met Gareth Westlake at a function she helped organise for his construction company. That was when she became Charlotte Westlake. Charlotte was her middle name. I guess it sounded a bit posher now she’d gone up in the world and mixed with a different set. Gareth died of leukaemia five years ago, as she told us. No children. Then three years ago she bumped into Blaydon at an opening party for a new shopping development he was involved with—the one before the Elmet, out Selby way. She’d known him vaguely from before, apparently, and he needed a PA. She took the job and the rest is history.”
“No connections with Gashi or Tadić?”
“Not that Gerry could find. Not before going to work for Blaydon, at any rate. Not that we expected any.”
“No form?”
“None. Again, we didn’t expect any.”
“So what next?”
“Gerry’s arranged to talk to her ex-secretary this afternoon. Tamara Collins. She took care of the actual party invitations by text or email. She works for that solicitor’s firm on Market Street now. You know the one, just a few doors down from the Costa Coffee.”
“I know who you mean,” said Banks. “Proctor, Maddox, and Reaney. I used to walk past there every morning on my way to work, back when Sandra and I were together.”
“Apparently there were a lot of word-of-mouth invitations, too,” Annie said. “If we can just track down some of the invitees and show them the girl’s picture, someone might remember seeing her and know who she is, or who was with her that night.”
“I doubt anyone will talk.”
“But they can’t all have been involved, can they? It was a big party. You’ve seen Blaydon’s mansion, how many rooms there are, with the swimming pool and all. Not all the guests were rapists. It was very late at night. There must be quite a few who don’t know what happened and would be as appalled by the news as Charlotte Westlake said she was. Probably most of them. Maybe they saw the victim around the pool or somewhere, noticed who she was talking to or hanging out with. Maybe someone was bothering her. Maybe she said something to someone.”
“It’s worth a try,” said Banks. “Good luck.”
RAY CABBOT sat in Banks’s back garden, where they had talked just the previous evening, which seemed a lifetime ago now, and rolled another cigarette. How his whole world had fallen to pieces in such a short time. Shifted and crumbled. He was oblivious to the sunshine, the birds, and the beautiful view. Even the muted strains of David Gilmour’s “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” coming through the open windows of the conservatory failed to move him or console him in any way. Ever since Banks had left him alone at Newhope Cottage, he had been fighting the urge to attack the collection of single malt whiskies, but had resisted so far. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out. Only oblivion could take away the pain of losing Zelda and save him from the terrible images that filled his mind.
Faceless men ripped off her clothes and pawed at her; they stuck knives in her until the blood flowed; they beat her face until it was misshapen and unrecognisable. His beautiful, vulnerable Zelda lay dying with no one to help her, no one to hold her as her last breath ebbed. But it wasn’t just the pain and the violence, it was what she must be feeling that also tore at his heart. The loneliness, the fear, the despair. After all she had been through, had she found herself a captive again in the hands of people who lacked any semblance of empathy? Was she going to die alone and in agony?
Ray had never felt so impotent, so useless, in his life. And their last words to one another had been angry ones. He would never forget the sound of the studio door slamming. Zelda was so rarely angry. Why hadn’t he gone after her? Surely, she would have let him in if he had knocked? Then he could have apologised and comforted her and taken her to Leeds with him and none of this would have happened. She had listened to his lectures before and said she enjoyed them. They could have gone for dinner afterwards, perhaps booked in at the Dakota and made a night of it. Instead he was exiled to Banks’s garden while heavy-handed coppers went through his home and belongings.
He could just imagine their reactions to some of his work: “Hey, have a look at this one, Joe. Got a right set of knockers on her, she has.” “I’ll bet that’s his missus.” But what could he do? For better or for worse, they were the only people he could rely on to find Zelda. And Alan. Where was Alan? Organising things, he had said. Yet it all seemed so disorganised. He couldn’t see what sort of plan they were following, how they hoped to get anywhere closer to finding Zelda by going through his things. They would be in her drawers, too, fingering her underwear, her personal stuff. Making crude comments, holding things up for everyone to see.
Ray stood up and walked over to the back fence. He felt caged. Maybe he should go for a walk up Tetchley Fell? But the mere sight of it made him feel out of breath. He was in no fit shape to go hiking. He stubbed out his cigarette, went inside and stared longingly at the bottles of Macallans and Highland Park. He knew Banks wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to a tipple. The thing was, he felt like shit already, having drunk too much the previous night instead of sleeping. And he needed a clear head in case Zelda called.
But his head wouldn’t clear. Maybe a little drink would help. He took out his mobile for the umpteenth time and checked for missed calls. Nothing. The music finished, and he couldn’t be bothered putting anything else on. Images of Zelda terrified and bloody filled his mind again. He sat back down and put his head in his hands. He wished he were painting. Usually everything else went from his mind when he took a brush in his hand. But perhaps even that wouldn’t work this time, even if he was allowed back in his studio. This was too serious to permit easy escape, if only for a second.
He rolled another cigarette, pictured the bottles on the shelf inside. Then he heard a car pulling up out front and jumped up. They’d found her. Surely that’s what it was. Alan was hurrying to give him the good news. He left his roll-up burning in the ashtray and dashed through to the front of the house with visions of Zelda running into his arms.
COSTA WAS usually busy after work, but Gerry and Tamara Collins managed to find a table for two in the back. After Gerry had brought the lattes, they settled down to talk amid the hubbub of conversation and the hoarse gurgling of the espresso machine. Tamara was probably about Gerry’s age, late twenties, and pretty in a sharp-featured, no-nonsense sort of way. Her clothes were conservative—white blouse, navy skirt, and jacket—as one would expect from a legal secretary.
Gerry took her notebook out. “How do you like your new job?” she asked.
“I’m very glad to have it.”
“It’s a bit different from working for Mr. Blaydon, I should imagine?”
Her expression darkened. “Yes.”
“How long did you work for him?”
“Three years. But I was working for Mrs. Westlake.”
“Technically, I know, but Blaydon employed both of you. Was he a good employer?”
“The pay was OK, the hours not bad.”
“And the boss?”
“To be honest, I didn’t see very much of him. I worked at his office in Leeds. Mrs. Westlake was his personal assistant. She didn’t have anything to do with the property developments or the estate business, but she had an office there. Mind you, she wasn’t there all the time. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If she was supposed to assist him, she probably had to be out and about a lot. And Mr. Blaydon himself was in and out, here and there. We didn’t see him very often. He travelled quite a lot. I think he had a yacht or something. It wasn’t as if we were all together in
one big room. And he wasn’t a grabber, if that’s what you mean.”
“He never behaved inappropriately?”
“Oh, Lordy me, no.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I had this job in my sights for a while. It’s closer to home and the pay’s much better. The work’s more interesting, too. The opportunity finally came up about a month ago.”
“Did you ever get invited to one of Mr. Blaydon’s parties?”
Tamara laughed. “Me? Lord, no! Why would he invite me? I don’t think he even knew I existed. The parties were just to impress important people—friends, influencers, business colleagues, and so on.”
“I understand he liked to have a few pretty women around, too.”
Tamara blushed. “Well, I certainly wasn’t one of them.”
“Where did he get them from?”
“How would I know? I just worked in the office. Basic secretarial duties for Mrs. Westlake.”
“Where do you think?”
Tamara held her coffee cup in both hands. “I heard things, like you do.”
“What things?”
“Just the usual. Office gossip. You know, that he hired models to be nice to his guests.”
“Models or escorts?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“What about drugs?”
“Again, I heard rumours. I can’t say they interested me very much.”
Gerry leaned forward. “Tamara, we think—in fact, we know—that Mr. Blaydon used a lot of girls from Eastern Europe, probably supplied by sex traffickers. His parties were also well known for their cocaine use. Did you ever meet a friend of his called Leka Gashi?”
Tamara shook her head. “I’m not saying he was never in the office. People came and went. But I was never introduced to anyone by that name.”
“Petar Tadić?”
“No.”
“We also know that Mr. Blaydon used, or allowed to be used, a number of his properties as pop-up brothels. Did you know that?”
“Pop-up brothels! God forbid. Of course not. Like I said, I had nothing to do with renting out properties or anything like that. I worked for Mrs. Westlake organising travel, accommodation, dinners, meetings, events, and that sort of thing. That was all.”
“I understand you sent out the party invitations.”
“Well, I sent out texts and emails sometimes, yes. Made phone calls.”
“Were you working on 13 April this year?”
“I suppose so.”
“Do you remember sending out invitations to a party for that date?”
“They would have been sent out about two weeks earlier. That would make it the end of March, or thereabouts. I can’t remember the exact date. I mean, it was a pretty menial task, to be honest, and it usually didn’t take very long. I just got it done and out of the way as soon as possible. Sometimes it was fun seeing a name I recognised, like a pop star or footballer, but that’s all. It was pretty boring otherwise.”
“I can understand that,” said Gerry. “Do you remember any names from that specific party?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” said Tamara. “Maybe that means there weren’t any I recognised. Nobody really famous.”
“Would you try and write down any names you do remember?”
“Yes, of course.”
“For any other parties that you can think of, too.”
“All right.”
Gerry fished out the digital image of the rape victim and passed it to Tamara. “Do you recognise this girl?”
Tamara held the photo and studied it from different angles. “Do you know, I . . . She looks very upset and dishevelled here, very different, but maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?”
Tamara handed the photo back. “I think maybe I saw her in the office once.”
Gerry felt her pulse quicken. “When was that?”
“Before 13 April, that much I know. February? March?”
“What was she doing?”
“She wanted to see Mrs. Westlake.”
“Can you remember what it was about? It might be important.”
“No. But Mrs. Westlake interviewed people for jobs and wrote cheques or made some payments in cash. Sometimes people dropped by to pick up their payment. Not everyone likes electronic bank transfers.”
“And this girl came for cash or a cheque?”
“I’m just saying that she might have done. Or maybe she was after a job. She didn’t tell me. I mean, there was nothing unusual about her. I do remember she was very pretty. Quite tall, long-legged, short reddish hair, maybe hennaed.” Tamara dabbed at a latte moustache. “Mrs. Westlake put the personnel together for the events Mr. Blaydon held, including the serving and kitchen staff and people to coordinate them on site. She didn’t trust most outside caterers. Not just for the parties, but business events, too, gala dinners, retirement parties, employee of the month awards and so on. She liked to use her own core team. I don’t know for certain why this girl came to the office, but that would be my first guess. For a job.”
“So there would be records in Blaydon’s business files? Bank details, name, address?”
“There should be. It was all above board. But accounts handled all that.”
“Are you sure she came to the office to see Mrs. Westlake?”
“Yes. That’s why I remember her. She came up to my desk and asked if Mrs. Westlake was in, and if she could see her. Said she had an appointment but she was a bit early. She waited in the reception area for a while, glancing at a magazine. I do remember she seemed nervous. You know, not really concentrating on what she was reading, just flipping the pages, looking at the pictures. Putting it down and picking up another. Then when the time came I showed her into the office myself.”
Gerry thought it odd that Tamara had recognised the girl from the photo when Charlotte Westlake, who must have had far more dealings with her, hadn’t. Was Charlotte lying? They would have to re-interview her. “I don’t suppose you remember her name, do you?” she asked.
Tamara thought for a moment and said, “Do you know, as a matter of fact I do. I asked her, you know, so I could tell Mrs. Westlake who was here to see her. Announce her, like.”
“And?”
“Her name was Marnie. I’m afraid I can’t remember her second name, but I remember her first name struck me as odd. It’s not often you come across someone called Marnie.”
“No,” said Gerry, scribbling away in her notebook. “No, it isn’t.”
“It’s from an old film, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Gerry, who had seen just about every “old” film there was with her parents when she was growing up, and had a surprisingly good recollection of most of them. “Alfred Hitchcock. Tippi Hedren and Sean Connery. It’s about sexual violence. And Marnie was a sexually repressed kleptomaniac.”
DC DEV Bharati was a keen young detective from County HQ, handsome, slim, and casually dressed, and he was clearly excited to be involved in such a high-profile case. He was a bit too deferential for Banks’s liking, but that probably wouldn’t last. Still, it made a change from the easy familiarity of Annie, Gerry, and Winsome, with whom he was more used to working.
“I thought you’d want to know right away, sir,” Bharati said as he drove Banks into Lyndgarth. “DS Flyte is still with him.”
They pulled up outside the Black Bull in the high street. Bharati had to duck as he walked through the doors. The beams inside were also low, and he had to watch where he walked. DS Samuel Flyte was sitting at a rickety table with the pub’s landlord Mick Slater, a grizzled old denizen of the public house trade. Banks had met him before on a number of occasions and found him gruff but sound enough.
Flyte was a few years older than Bharati, fat but not obese. He reminded Banks of his old oppo, DS Jim Hatchley, now long retired and by all accounts practically taking up residence at Eastvale Golf Club. Hatchley had resembled a rugby prop forward gone to seed, but Banks guessed there was more muscle than
fat in Flyte’s bulk. He was also bald, with a shiny head, a small moustache, a red face, and a slow, countryman’s manner of moving, along with the habit of appearing to think for a moment before answering any questions. He stood up when Banks entered and shook hands. He was wearing a tight-fitting navy suit, already a little shiny around the elbows.
There were plenty of people in the pub, and Banks had no doubt most of them were talking about what had happened on the edge of the village. He recognised a couple of reporters from the local papers, but the London press hadn’t turned up yet. As soon as they got wind of what had happened, they’d be up the M1 quickly enough, and Zelda’s dirty laundry would be spread all over the front pages of the national media. Another good reason for hanging on to the notebook.
Banks sat down with Mick Slater, Flyte, and Bharati. Slater offered drinks, but they all refused. The two detectives did so because Banks was present, he assumed, and Banks declined because he didn’t want any alcohol and rarely drank tea or coffee in the afternoon.
“Let’s get straight to it,” he said. “I know you’ve probably told DS Flyte already, but I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened. Start with when.”
“It was three or four days ago,” said Slater. “Just before the weekend.”
“What time of day?”
“About now.”
Banks saw DC Bharati make a note of the time. “And what were the man’s actual words?”
“He asked if I knew of a young woman living in these parts. Said he was an old friend and he hadn’t seen her for some years, but he’d heard she was living in Lyndgarth. A place called Windlee Farm. He didn’t have a full address and his satnav was going wonky. Well, they do that a lot around these parts. Then he described her. Her appearance, the slight accent. It sounded to me as if he was talking about Mrs. Cabbot.”
It sounded the same way to Banks, though it was strange hearing Zelda described as Mrs. Cabbot, especially as she and Ray weren’t even married. “So you got the impression that he didn’t know exactly where she lived?”
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