“Did Marnie drink much?”
“She liked a drink—white wine was her favourite—but she didn’t overdo it, no. I’ve only seen her drunk about once or twice in all the time I’ve known her.”
“How did it affect her?”
“First she’d get very funny, silly, then she’d fall asleep.”
“You mentioned drugs. Did Marnie take any? You said she didn’t touch coke; what about others?”
Mitsuko looked away.
“You can tell us,” said Annie. “We’re interested in finding her, not arresting her for smoking a spliff or whatever.”
“Ecstasy a couple of times, at parties. And maybe the occasional smoke. But that’s as far as it went. Never the hard stuff. Like I said, she wouldn’t have taken any of that stuff at those parties she was working.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“She went out a few times with Rick, one of the guys from the pub we hung out in. The Star and Garter. He’s nice enough. Fancies himself a poet, and Marnie was a sucker for artistic types. All that goth darkness and stuff. But I don’t think it was serious.”
Gerry made a note and Annie asked, “Is Rick still around?”
“Sure. Should be. But I don’t think he’ll be able to tell you anything. They split up around the same time she started getting strange.” Mitsuko paused. “I’m still really worried about her, you know. That she might do . . . you know . . . might harm herself. She was soooo depressed when she left.”
“Do you know if she saw a doctor?”
“I suggested it, but she just shook her head.”
“Did she give you any idea at all of what might be going on, what caused her state of mind?”
“No,” said Mitsuko. “And in the end, I just learned to stop bothering her. She’d get mad, tell me to shut up and leave her alone. I couldn’t get through to her. And it hurt, you know.”
“I can imagine it did,” Annie said. “Do you know where she went?”
“No. She just took off after that incident at work. I was working here that day, too, and Mr. Baldini said I should go after her and make sure she was all right. He’s very nice. So I did, but when I got back to the house, she was packing a few things in a suitcase. I asked her where she was going, and she said she was just going away for a few days to be by herself. I asked her what was wrong, but she told me it was nothing, not to worry. And that was it. I was dismissed. She drove off and she never came back. I left emails and messages on her mobile but got no response. I’ve been worried about her ever since. It’s been over six weeks now and not a word. When you find her, please let me know. I won’t try to see her or anything if she doesn’t want. I just need to know that she’s all right. Will you tell me?”
“Yes,” said Annie. “Do you have a recent photograph you could share with us? The one we have is very poor quality.”
“Sure. I think.” Mitsuko pulled out her mobile from her back pocket and searched through her photo library. “We went for a cheap city break to Rome last October,” she said. “It was amazing. We saw the Sistine Chapel, the Colosseum, the Pantheon, everything. Here.” She turned the phone so they could see a clear picture of Marnie with a Roman ruin in the background. “That was taken in the Forum.”
“Thanks,” said Annie. “Can you email it to me?”
“I can AirDrop it,” Mitsuko said.
In a few moments Annie was asked if she was willing to accept the photo. She clicked yes, and there it was. She held out the phone and Gerry bent forward to see it too. It was the first time they had seen what the person they were after looked like. The image from the SD card did her no justice at all. Marnie was a lot more attractive than Annie had been able to tell from the video capture. And no doubt the fact that she was enjoying a weekend break in Rome, and hadn’t just been assaulted, helped a great deal. Her big dark eyes stared directly into the camera, her complexion was pale and flawless and her short hair definitely hennaed. She wore a simple white T-shirt, no make-up or heavy jewellery, and had no tattoos on her arms or neck, but there was something of the goth in her appearance, both challenging and defiant. It was perhaps more of an attitude than a style, Annie decided, something in her stance and the seriousness of her expression.
Their pizzas arrived. Mitsuko asked if there was anything else, and they said they didn’t think so. Not for the moment. She said she would be around the restaurant if they thought of anything, and went back to work.
As they tucked into their lunch, Annie thought about Marnie and remembered her own experience. After she had been raped, she had wandered around in a depressed haze of guilt and shame, wondering how she could ever have let such a thing happen to her. But it was her anger that ultimately saved her. She never let go of the fact that it wasn’t her fault; it was the fault of the bastards who raped her. And clinging to that idea was probably what saved her from Marnie’s fate, whatever it was. Annie had clawed her way out; Marnie seemed to have gone under.
She completely understood why Marnie hadn’t been able to tell her best friend what happened. She had never shared what happened to her with a living soul until she told Banks in a moment of weakness on their first case together. It was a long time ago now, but the pain and shame would never completely go away; they were deep down, rooted in her very being. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t live a normal life, couldn’t function properly. She did. She wanted to find Marnie and tell her that she could do it, too, even if at first she wouldn’t believe it.
AS SOON as she got back to the station from York, Gerry got on her computer. A search through the databases revealed that a Marjorie Sedgwick lived in a place called Wool, in Dorset. According to Gerry’s information, that came under the Purbeck North policing area. She made a note of the address, then phoned the Purbeck police.
A youthful-sounding PCSO answered her call, saying he knew the Sedgwick family by name and that they did, indeed, live in Wool, though he was very careful to point out that he didn’t know them because of any criminal activity, suspected or real. When Gerry pressed her case and asked why he knew the name, he grew evasive and muttered something about a tragedy. Even though he had verified who Gerry was by calling back the Eastvale number she had given him, he still seemed reluctant to say more.
“If you can’t or don’t want to talk to me,” said Gerry, “can you please put someone on who will?”
There was silence, then the sound of the handset being set down on a hard surface. Gerry tried to picture the location. Many of these police stations were much like the ones in rural Yorkshire, nothing more than the local copper’s living room with a filing cabinet and a few wanted posters on the walls. She imagined a thatched roof cottage with a blue POLICE sign over its door and opening hours noted down the side.
“Sergeant Trevelyan here,” came a new voice at the other end. “Who am I speaking to?” Gerry thought Trevelyan was a Cornish name. Still, Cornwall wasn’t that far from Dorset. His accent didn’t give anything away; it was pure RP.
“My name is Geraldine Masterson,” she said. “I’m a DC at Eastvale Regional Police HQ in Eastvale, North Yorkshire. I’m making enquiries about a local girl called Marnie Sedgwick, and the database has led me to a Marjorie Sedgwick in Wool, Dorset. Your PCSO seemed to recognise Marnie’s name.”
“Not many who wouldn’t around these parts,” said Trevelyan.
“Oh, why is that?”
“Not the best of reasons, I’m afraid. Poor Marnie Sedgwick only went and killed herself, didn’t she? The tragedy’s still fresh in everyone’s mind.”
Gerry felt her skin prickle. “Killed herself?”
“Aye. Jumped off Durdle Door.”
“When did this happen?”
There was another pause, then Trevelyan said, “May. Seventeenth May.”
About a month after the rape, Gerry realised, and five days before Blaydon’s murder. She made a note on her desk pad.
“Can I send you a photo of her, then we can be certain we’re talking abou
t the same person?”
“Go ahead. Text it to my mobile.” He gave her the number. A few seconds after she had sent the image, she heard a ding and Trevelyan came back. “Aye,” he said. “That’s poor Marnie, all right.”
Christ. Gerry felt a chill flutter in her chest. “You said she jumped off Durdle Door?”
“It’s a limestone arch in the sea near Lulworth Cove. The water’s worn a hole in it over the years, so it’s like an open door in the rock. The beach there is a popular tourist spot.”
“I’ve seen pictures,” said Gerry. “Would you mind if my colleague and I come down to see you? We’d like to talk to the family, too, if possible.”
“It’s all right by me,” said Trevelyan. “Hell of a long way to come, if you ask me, though, and I won’t have any more to tell you than I have right now.”
“Will you arrange for us to see this Durdle Door and to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Sedgwick?”
“Easy enough. I’ll certainly ask them. You understand they might not wish to dredge it all up again. It’s still raw.”
“We can be very gentle. Please try, Sergeant. It’s important.”
“I’ll do my best. See you soon then?”
“We’ll talk to you soon.”
BANKS HADN’T heard the Blue Lamps live for quite a while, but they were every bit as good as he remembered, their bluesy feel, rhythmic complexity, and subtle use of harmonies as strong and as familiar as ever. To Banks’s ears, it was CSNY meet the Allman Brothers, but with an unmistakable edge of more recent pop styles in the mix.
It was a nostalgic evening, and they played songs from their earliest albums mixed in with more recent work, along with a few covers they had revisited now and then over the years. At one point, Brian announced, “I feel like I’ve been listening to this song since I was in my cradle. This is for my old man. He’s here somewhere tonight. Love you, Dad!” The crowd cheered and the band launched into a bluesy “Visions of Johanna,” with Brian taking the lead vocal and a soaring lyrical guitar solo. Emotion fizzed in Banks’s chest and almost made it to his eyes. As with most of Dylan’s mid-sixties songs, he didn’t understand a word of it, but it sure had a powerful effect on him.
The Sage was full, and the fans both enthusiastic and saddened by the occasion. Some waved banners saying “PLEASE DON’T TURN OFF THE LAMPS!” but everything was good-natured, including the band members, and no one felt cheated when the show ended after the fifth encore.
Banks kept checking his mobile during the performance, but nothing new came in. When the show ended, surprised by how the music had allowed him to put Zelda out of his mind for a short while at least, he nipped outside to phone Annie, who had been in charge during his absence, and told her about a derelict hunting lodge he had remembered on the fells above Swainshead. It turned out that the place had already been searched and found to be empty. As had the Blaydon properties they had searched so far. The only news was that Burgess had come up with a good photograph of Petar Tadić, and Adrian Moss had pasted it all over the media.
Cursing their lack of success and his own inability to come up with any better ideas, Banks made his way to the backstage area, where Tracy and Mark were already waiting for him with Brian and the rest of the band. The dressing room was crowded with lucky fans, hangers-on, and a few journalists. After all, the demise of the band was a major event. There were two more dates left on the “farewell’ tour before the absolute final performance, back in London again, but this one was close enough to home ground to make the news.
Banks managed a few brief words with Brian, who regretted being unable to come and spend the night at Newhope Cottage because the tight schedule called for an early start to Edinburgh the following morning. It was a pity, as Banks had looked forward to spending some time alone with him, listening to old blues and Bob Dylan and talking about everything under the sun. Banks would have driven him to Edinburgh in the morning under normal circumstances, but he couldn’t take the time off, either. After London, Brian said, when the tour was over, he would have some time off before starting a trainee sound-recording job he had set up at a studio down there, so he would come up for a few days then. Banks was no lover of big noisy parties, no matter what their purpose, so he said his goodbyes to the other band members and made his way towards the exit. Tracy and Mark said they would stay on just a little longer and take a taxi home. They had just got back from Tenerife that day and were feeling tired.
In the afterglow of “Visions of Johanna,” Banks played Blonde on Blonde on the way home, arriving in the middle of “Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.” He felt lonely when he pulled up outside his dark cottage. Normally, living alone never bothered him much, but spending even a little time with Brian and seeing Tracy so happy with her new husband reminded him of when he had a family, when home was a place of love and comfort, where there would always be someone waiting for him. These days, his life seemed to lack purpose—or at least any purpose other than putting bad guys away. Zelda haunted him, too. Not only what might be happening to her now, but what the future might hold. Not very much, he suspected, and none of it pleasant. They had to find her.
The outside light usually came on automatically when he approached the front door, but tonight it didn’t. He made a mental note to replace the bulb tomorrow. He used the light from his mobile, managed to get his key in the lock, and open the door. He stepped over the threshold, looking forward to a quick nightcap, but before he could shut the door behind him, he sensed a sudden movement, then felt something hard hit the back of his head. He pitched forward into the cottage, and after that, he felt nothing.
12
BANKS FIRST BECAME AWARE OF A THROBBING PAIN IN his head. When he opened his eyes, he saw he was in semi-darkness. It was a blessing. Bright light would have hurt. He also realised that he was tied up. He wasn’t sure how, or how securely, only that when he moved his legs to try to straighten them out, something tightened around his neck like a noose. Trussed was the word that came to mind. Trussed like a Christmas turkey. Hog-tied.
He didn’t know how long he had been like that before he heard a door open and someone placed a portable work light down beside him. He shut his eyes, but not quickly enough to prevent the pain of the light exploding inside his head. He couldn’t even raise a hand to cover his face.
When he did open his eyes again, he could only see the shadowed and hunched profile of the man who stood before him, but that was enough for Banks to recognise him. He was looking older, his hairline had receded and he carried more weight around the middle, but Banks didn’t have to be a super-recogniser to know it was Phil Keane. He also noticed that he was being kept in a cavernous space, an abandoned factory or control centre of some sort, with large rusted wheels, heavy pipes and valves, pumps, storage tanks, hanging wires, and broken consoles.
“Well, well,” said Keane. “We meet again. You cost me a lot, you know. Because of you I had to leave the country, get a new identity, find a new line of work. But perhaps I should thank you. It’s proven even more profitable than my previous work.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Banks managed to mumble with a mouth that felt full of treacle. Keane was holding something, and Banks saw it was a large can. The kind you carry petrol in. “Where’s Zelda?” he asked.
“The girl? She’s nothing to do with me. Petar’s taking care of her. He has a score to settle. He’s made plans for her. Fortunately, he’s agreed to let me settle my old score, too.”
“If either of you harm her—”
“Oh, stop it,” said Keane, unscrewing the can. “You don’t know how pathetic you sound. We’re going to do exactly what we want, and you’re not going to be able to stop us. This time I’ll get to finish what I started.” He shook the can and Banks heard the petrol slosh inside it. Soon he could smell it, too. “We’re clearing out of here very soon,” Keane said. “It’s time to move on. A good fire is just the thing we need to make sure we leave no traces.”
Kea
ne splashed the petrol on the floor around Banks’s feet.
WHEN TADIĆ came into her room again and set the light down on the floor, he came alone. Zelda sensed some new purpose in his visit other than mere torture or gloating.
“We are leaving soon,” he said. “Mr. Foley has your new passport in the car, along with sufficient funds for the journey. It will be a long and hard one, and perhaps not as comfortable as you would wish.”
“So let me loose to clean myself up a bit. At least give me a fresh T-shirt.” Zelda’s top was still crusted with dried vomit from the time Tadić had hit her.
Tadić smiled. “Yes. Of course. A good idea. All in good time. We have nice new clothes for you in the car. But you are right about the T-shirt. It is disgusting.”
He knelt before her and took a flick-knife from the pocket of his leather jacket. He held it close to her face and flicked the blade open to make sure she saw it glinting in the light. Then he slid it under the material of her top and started cutting until the T-shirt was in shreds on the floor.
So this is it, Zelda thought. This is when he takes his pleasure. Feeling half-naked and exposed was nothing new to her, but it had been so long that she found herself feeling embarrassed and shy. She wanted to protect herself from his gaze and raised her cuffed hands up to cover her breasts as best she could.
Tadić merely laughed. “Very modest for a kurva,” he said, unfastening his belt and unzipping his trousers. The light cast grotesque shadows of him on the wall. He took off his leather jacket and dropped it on the floor, then grabbed her by the hair. “On your knees.”
Zelda had no choice but to submit. But as she did so, an idea formed. When she was kneeling, and Tadić had his trousers down around his ankles, he put the blade of the knife to her neck, right by the jugular vein and carotid artery. It wouldn’t take much to cut them, Zelda thought. Just a slip of the hand, a nervous tic even, and she would be free. Could she do it? She hadn’t been able to swallow her tongue or hold her breath, but perhaps she could accept death this way. She closed her eyes, felt the cold steel on her skin, felt his hand press against the back of her neck, pulling her forward.
Not Dark Yet Page 20
