Peter Robinson - Many Rivers to Cross

‘I have to admit,’ Joanna said, ‘that most of what we’ve got on Blaydon looks like guilt by association so far. But some of his visitors at home, or people he meets in Leeds city bars and restaurants, office towers, or down in London — ones we’ve been able to monitor — are very dodgy indeed. He may well be expanding his so-called business interests. There’s an Albanian living in London called Leka Gashi we know is involved with the Shqiptare, the Albanian Mafia. And he’s in bed with a major drug kingpin, also in London. Taking over, some would say. On the other hand, one thing they say about the Albanian crooks is that they’ll try and get their feet under the table by treaties and cooperation. They prefer to make friends first.’

‘And then?’

Joanna drew a finger across her throat. ‘If that doesn’t work, they’re known to be extremely violent. The problem is, no one will talk, and none of the police agencies involved can get enough evidence to bring Blaydon in. Like I said, he’s always one step ahead. He has men to put frighteners on potential whistle-blowers — or the Albanians do — and people on the inside to steer any dangerous investigations away from him. Occasionally, they’ll net a few small fish, but the big ones keep on swimming ahead.’

Banks thought it all over for a few moments, then said, ‘OK. So we’ve got a dead boy on the East Side Estate around the same time as Connor Clive Blaydon’s Merc was spotted in the area. Blaydon’s a known gangster with some very nasty local and international drugs connections. What are your thoughts? That the dead youth was working for him, or against him? On the take? Something like that?’

Joanna shrugged. ‘It’s possible. Drugs make sense as far as the victim is concerned. You mentioned earlier that the boy had a small amount of cocaine in his pocket. County lines, maybe? We know they recruit young kids to run drugs, especially crack and heroin, from urban centres to places like Eastvale. And the East Side Estate is just the sort of place they’d set up a trap house to sell from. Maybe the Albanians are taking over the county lines? This murder sounds like the kind of thing they would do if the boy crossed them or held out on them, or stole. Dump the poor kid’s body in a rubbish bin. Sends a message.’

‘Loud and clear.’ Banks knew that county lines were the scourge of small-time local dealers, who were being cut out by the new business model. Instead of meeting your local supplier down at the pub and scoring, you had a young lad sent up from the city and installed in a house, taking orders by a dedicated phone set up for that very purpose — a county line. County lines had fast become the Amazon Prime of drug supply, ousting any number of smaller, independent retailers.

‘We’ve had men canvassing the estate all day,’ Banks went on, ‘and nobody yet has admitted to ever seeing the lad at all before, never mind on the night he was killed. Of course, we wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were lying, but not all. You said earlier that Blaydon had owned property on the East Side Estate, places he bought from right-to-buy tenants back in Thatcher’s day. Does he still have any?’

‘I’d have to check, but he’s probably sold them all by now. He’s not in the rental business. It’s ironic, isn’t it, how most of the homes have ended up being owned by landlords who bought them for about seventy per cent less than their market value and rent them out for more than the council ever did. Talk about a plan backfiring. Anyway, I’d assume that whoever killed the boy probably took his body there by car and dumped it. Right? The killing itself might have happened in one of the surrounding villages, or another part of town.’

‘A good assumption,’ said Banks. ‘We still need to know how long elapsed between the killing and the dumping, and it might not be easy for the pathologist to figure out. We won’t know until the post-mortem, at any rate — if then — unless we find out by some other means. But it doesn’t help us a lot at the moment to know he might have been killed elsewhere. We’re already extending inquiries out from the estate to the rest of town. Nobody so far recalls seeing any cars around the time he was dumped, only maybe hearing something. We’ll keep at it, but it’s like getting blood out of a stone.’ Banks paused. ‘I’m having another pint. Why don’t you join me?’

Joanna glanced at her watch. ‘Better not. I should get home for dinner. Will you look into it, though? What we’ve been talking about, a possible connection with your murder? Will you talk to Blaydon?’

‘Of course. Is someone waiting for you at home?’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Sorry. I didn’t—’

‘No, no. It’s just me. I didn’t mean to snap.’ Joanna stood up to put on her tailored jacket, suddenly flustered, blushing. ‘I... I just... As a matter of fact, there isn’t anyone. It’s only me and a Tesco pizza. But I didn’t come here to—’

‘Then, if you’ve no objection, I’ll skip the extra pint, you skip the pizza, and we’ll have a curry just around the corner.’

Joanna studied him through narrowed eyes. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, but he thought she was every bit as attractive and elegant as he had found her when they had first worked together almost seven years ago: tall and slender, a smattering of freckles across her small nose, a generous mouth, watchful green eyes, finishing school posture and stylish dress sense. A Hitchcock blonde, perhaps: Kim Novak in Vertigo or Tippi Hedren in The Birds .

Finally, Joanna grabbed the back of the chair with both hands and leaned forward. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I accept. But we’re going Dutch. That clear?’

Banks stood to leave. ‘As crystal,’ he said. ‘A Dutch curry. Fine with me.’

When Banks got to his office the following morning, he found a message from Area Commander Gervaise asking him to report to her as soon as possible. He climbed the extra flight of stairs to the top floor and knocked on her door. She called for him to enter, and he wasn’t surprised to see Assistant Chief Constable Ron McLaughlin already ensconced in a chair, coffee in hand.

‘Alan,’ said Gervaise when he had joined them. ‘I’m not going to ask you if there are any developments yet because I know there aren’t.’

‘Not entirely true,’ said Banks. ‘I had a drink with DI Joanna MacDonald from Criminal Intelligence last night, and she pointed us towards a villain named Connor Clive Blaydon.’

ACC McLaughlin frowned. ‘Blaydon?’

‘You know him, sir?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said McLaughlin, ‘but I know of him. He’s some sort of property magnate, as I understand it.’

‘Plays golf with the chief constable?’

AC Gervaise raised an admonishing finger. ‘Now, now, Alan.’

‘The chief constable doesn’t play golf,’ said McLaughlin, a ghost of a smile on his face. ‘She’s strictly a squash and bridge woman.’

‘Sorry,’ said Banks. ‘Anyway, he’s one of the main players in that new Elmet Centre redevelopment.’

‘So what’s the murder of a young boy got to do with him?’ Gervaise asked.

‘That I don’t know,’ said Banks. He gave McLaughlin a quick glance. ‘Maybe nothing. Only DI MacDonald says they’ve been keeping an eye on Blaydon and discovered he’s been meeting with one or two unsavoury characters. One’s an Albanian called Leka Gashi, known to be heavily involved in the drugs trade. He’s also linked to the Albanian Mafia, the Shqiptare.’

‘My, my, Blaydon does get around,’ said Gervaise. ‘How is this man linked to the murder?’

‘We don’t know that he is yet, ma’am, but his car was spotted leaving Eastvale last night, just after the time we think the boy’s body was dumped. And the boy was carrying a small amount of cocaine.’