Peter Robinson - Many Rivers to Cross

The butler opened the door and Banks and Annie entered. A man sat facing them across a large desk, his back to the mullioned windows, which framed a view of the extensive gardens. The desk was scattered with papers, and the rest of the place was similarly untidy. The window was partially open, and Banks could hear birds singing in the garden.

Blaydon stood up, made his way past a couple of piles of paper and shook hands with them both, then went back to his chair. ‘Pull up a couple of chairs,’ he said, then looked around at the mess and smiled. ‘Just dump those files on the floor. I like a bit of disorder. Can’t bear everything in its place. It used to be a bone of contention, I can you tell you. Gabriella — the wife as was — she liked everything just so. For the sake of our marriage, we agreed that this room is sacrosanct, though I can’t say it did any good in the long run.’

‘You’ve separated?’

‘Divorced,’ said Blaydon. ‘A couple of years back.’

‘Kids?’

‘One of each. Hang on just a minute.’ He pressed a buzzer on his desk and the man who had answered the door reappeared.

‘Tea or coffee?’ Blaydon asked. ‘Or something stronger, perhaps?’

‘Coffee would be fine,’ said Banks.

Annie nodded in agreement.

‘Fine, then,’ said Blaydon, and the man went off.

‘The butler?’ Banks inquired.

‘Who? Jeeves? I suppose so. Though I don’t think they call themselves that any more. And that’s not his real name, of course. Hates it when I call him that. He’s Roberts. He helps out around the place. Better than a wife, and much less trouble. Now what can I do for you? You didn’t tell me anything over the phone.’

Blaydon looked like a retired academic, thought Banks, who had met a few in his time. The casual lemon sweater over an open-neck white shirt, unruly head of brown, grey-flecked hair, aquiline nose, keen, watchful eyes behind wire-framed spectacles. He wasn’t in the least bit imposing; in fact, he seemed perfectly relaxed, as if he might have been sitting there marking a pile of exam papers rather than renting out empty properties to drug dealers or madams of pop-up brothels.

‘Were you in Eastvale on Sunday evening?’ Banks asked.

‘Eastvale? Yes, I was.’

‘Why?’

Blaydon leaned back in his chair. It creaked. ‘Why? Well, as a matter of fact, I was having dinner with some business colleagues.’ He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with anything?’

‘We’re investigating an incident,’ said Annie. ‘We’re questioning anyone who might be able to help us.’

‘I see. I’m afraid I can’t help you at all. I went to the restaurant, dined and left. I saw no incident. What sort of thing are we talking about?’

Banks paused, then said, ‘It was a murder.’

‘Murder? Good Lord. I think I would have remembered something like that.’

Roberts returned with the coffee, silver carafe on a silver tray, with a matching silver milk jug and sugar bowls. Banks took his black and Annie took milk and one sugar. Blaydon declined. When Roberts had gone, they carried on.

‘Which restaurant were you at?’ Banks asked.

‘Marcel’s. Le Coq d’Or. It’s on—’

‘I know where Le Coq d’Or is,’ said Banks. It was tucked away on a narrow side street of twee shops and antiquarian book dealers between Market Street and York Road, at the back of the market square. It was also the most expensive restaurant in Eastvale — in the entire Dales, for that matter — and had been awarded not one, but two Michelin stars. Neither Banks nor Annie had ever eaten there, and probably never would.

‘We often dine there,’ Blaydon went on. ‘His truffle and—’

‘Who were you dining with?’ Annie’s question stopped Blaydon mid-sentence.

‘I told you. Business colleagues.’

‘Can you give me their names?’

‘I don’t want you bothering my friends about such matters. I’ve told you, none of us saw or heard anything unusual. I’m assuming whatever happened was near Marcel’s?’

‘Friends?’ Annie said. ‘I thought you said business colleagues.’

Blaydon gave her a cold stare. ‘Business colleagues. Friends. What does it matter? I don’t want you bothering them.’

‘We promise not to bother them,’ Annie said.

‘And we’ll find out one way or another,’ Banks added.

Blaydon sighed and shot them a poisonous glance. ‘If you must know, it was the Kerrigan brothers. Thomas and Timothy.’

Banks whistled. ‘Tommy and Timmy Kerrigan, eh? Reg and Ronnie. They certainly get around. Fine company you keep.’

‘The Kerrigans are respectable businessmen. We do a fair bit of business together.’

‘Like the Elmet Centre?’

‘That’s one project we’re involved in, yes.’

‘A pretty big one, too. Did you drive to Eastvale?’

‘Not personally. No licence, you see. Slight difference of opinion with a breathalyser. I had my chauffeur, Frankie, drive me and wait for me out front. Where did this murder take place?’

‘That would be Frankie Wallace?’ Banks said.

‘Yes.’

‘What time did you arrive at the restaurant?’ Annie asked.

‘Seven-thirty, or thereabouts.’

‘And what time did you leave?’

‘Late.’

‘Around eleven?’

‘Around that time, yes.’

‘That’s rather a long time to spend over your frog’s legs and snails, isn’t it? Doesn’t the restaurant close earlier than that? It was a Sunday night, after all.’

‘Marcel is a friend,’ said Blaydon. ‘He’s happy to stay open for his best customers as long as they wish. I mean, it’s hardly your Nando’s or Pizza Express. And you have it quite wrong about the food he serves. There are no snails—’

‘We don’t really care about snails, sir,’ Banks cut in. ‘So you were in Le Coq d’Or having dinner with the Kerrigan brothers, and your driver Frankie Wallace was out front waiting to take you home from half past seven until eleven on Sunday? Right?’

‘That is correct.’

‘And you didn’t leave the restaurant at all during that time?’

‘I didn’t nip out to murder someone, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Who was it, by the way? Who was the victim?’

‘A young lad,’ said Banks. ‘We think he might have been mixed up with drugs.’

‘It’s a terrible thing, these days,’ said Blaydon. ‘One reads so much about the damage drugs can do. I contribute to a number of rehabilitation centres. Try to do my bit, you know. Give something back.’

‘For what?’

‘I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth,’ said Blaydon. ‘I made my way up the hard way. Through sheer hard slog. You’re just like all the rest. You slag off entrepreneurs like me, but where would you be without us? Still living in fucking caves, that’s where.’

‘We already know a bit about how you made your way up in the world,’ said Banks. ‘But that’s not what we’re interested in.’

‘I’m still trying to work out what you are interested in. Is this a fishing expedition of some kind? If so, should I have my solicitor present?’

‘What might we be fishing for?’ Annie asked.

‘Don’t ask me.’

Banks took out Peter Darby’s photographic rendering of the victim from his briefcase and showed it to Blaydon. ‘Ever seen this lad?’

Blaydon squinted at the photo and turned back to Banks. ‘No, I can’t say as I have. Arab kid, is he?’

‘We don’t know where he’s from.’ Banks put the photo away. ‘Do you know a man called George Fanthorpe?’ he asked. ‘Farmer Fanthorpe?’

‘Yes,’ Blaydon said after a slight hesitation. ‘We did business occasionally. But it was some time ago. I heard he was sent to prison.’