Peter Robinson: Many Rivers to Cross

‘Hmm,’ said Banks. ‘This is interesting.’

‘May I see it?’ asked Willy Carnwood.

Banks had hoped he wouldn’t ask, but as he had, he knew he would have to pass the file across. But not just yet. ‘It’s just come in, as you know,’ he said. ‘I’ll need to refer to it during my questioning. Then I’ll make sure you get to see it.’

Carnwood nodded. ‘OK.’

‘Want to know what it says?’ Banks asked Chris.

Chris looked nonchalant, bored even. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me anyway,’ he said with a sneer.

‘Yes. I think we might be able to bring these proceedings to a swift conclusion.’

‘You mean I can go home?’

‘Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.’ Banks tapped the sheets in front of him. ‘See, the DNA analysis of the traces of blood we found in the park is a match for the samples taken from Samir Boulad’s body. It’s Samir’s blood, Chris. No doubt about that.’

Though Chris now looked a little less nonchalant, he merely shrugged and said, ‘So what? Seeing as I’ve already told you I wasn’t there that night, I don’t see what it has to do with me. I’m very sorry and all that. It’s terrible that such a thing should happen so close—’

‘Oh, cut the crap,’ said Banks.

Carnwood shot him a reproving glance, but Banks carried on.

‘Well, in itself, maybe it doesn’t mean too much to you right now that we found traces of Samir’s blood in the woods. But our toxicologist also found two different DNA samples in the saliva from the roaches and chewing gum we recovered; your feelings might change when we have samples for comparison from you and Jason.’

‘What? No way.’

‘Oh, there’s a way, all right,’ said Banks. ‘Ask your solicitor. We’ll be taking mouth swabs or plucked hairs while he’s present. Or we can get a doctor to come in and take a blood sample, if you give your written consent. Believe me, we’ve plenty of grounds for arrest or a court order. Your choice. Anyway, the best is yet to come.’

Banks let the silence stretch and watched Chris chew his lower lip.

‘Our technicians haven’t finished the analysis and comparisons yet, but they also found traces of blood in the boot of your car. It’s being analysed further as we speak. Now what are the odds against us finding it’s a match for Samir’s, too?’

Chris swallowed and Banks guessed from his expression that he was doing a lot of quick thinking and re-evaluating his position. He hardly seemed aware of the duty solicitor’s presence. Finally, he rested his palms on the desk and said, ‘OK, I’ll make a statement. But it wasn’t me who stabbed him. It was Jason.’

As usual, the ‘celebration’ of a case solved was a sweet and sour affair, taking into account the sense of achievement in uncovering a killer, and the awareness of how many lives the revelation would ruin in addition to the killer’s and his family’s.

But alcohol helped blur the lines, and in its glow, tears soon turned to euphoria, and the mingled feelings of sorrow and regret had morphed into black humour by the time the third pint came along. It helped that they’d had another, albeit vicarious, success that afternoon: a man caught for a sexual assault in Hull had admitted to also assaulting Lisa Bartlett in Eastvale. A white man.

It also helped that Cyril, the landlord of the Queen’s Arms, was playing one of his most upbeat playlists. Even Ray would have appreciated the inclusion of ‘Lady Rachel’ by Kevin Ayers among the more standard sixties’ fare of The Who, Kinks, Byrds and Stones. Banks slugged back some beer. The Beatles’ ‘And Your Bird Can Sing’ came up next, two minutes of pure joy.

Sausage rolls and pasties appeared on their tables, courtesy of Cyril. It was a quiet night, and he clearly appreciated the business a solved case had brought him. Annie was there, deep in conversation with Stefan Nowak, whom Banks knew she fancied. Gerry chatted away with a very pregnant Winsome, demurely sipping orange juice, her husband Terry beside her. Jazz Singh and Vic Manson had got stuck with AC Gervaise — ACC McLaughlin had sent his congratulations, and regrets — and Banks felt outside it all, watching over them like a founding father. One thing was certain, he was the oldest in the group, though Vic couldn’t be too far behind.

The door opened and Joanna MacDonald walked in, a breath of fresh air. She smiled all around and made a beeline for Banks. He had invited her, but he hadn’t expected her to come.

‘All by yourself?’ she said, sitting down beside him.

‘So it would appear. Drink?’

‘I’ll have a G&T, please.’

Banks went to the bar and got her one, along with another pint of Timothy Taylor’s for himself. The cobbled market square was darkening fast outside, and one or two people still sat drinking and smoking at the tables Cyril had put out. The Beatles finished, and a more subdued Françoise Hardy came on singing ‘All Over the World’ in English. How Banks had lusted after her when he was a teenager. It wasn’t merely her beauty or her voice, but the whole ‘Frenchness’ of it all; her world was exotic, foreign, intoxicating; it reeked of Gauloises and Calvados. Her French version of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Suzanne’ sounded particularly sexy.

Banks carried the drinks back to the table. Joanna took a dainty sip and said, ‘I’ve heard the edited highlights, but maybe you’d like to tell me the full story?’

‘It seems ages since we sat last here and you told me about Blaydon,’ Banks said.

‘I gather he didn’t do it?’

‘No. Not to worry, though. He’s done plenty, and he certainly had a hand in it. We’ll be paying him another visit before too long.’

‘So what happened?’

‘You were spot on about the county lines connection. They were using a house on the Hollyfield Estate. It belonged to an old sixties junkie called Howard Stokes, who let them use it as a dealing centre in exchange for heroin. The whole estate has been condemned to make way for a new development — one of Blaydon’s projects — which I understand isn’t progressing too well.’

‘Why not?’

Banks shrugged. ‘The economy. Austerity. Whatever. It seems people aren’t in a mood for new shopping centres, and his home-building plans didn’t quite match up with the affordable social housing ideas the government has in mind, so there go the grants. It’s on hold, and the investors are getting antsy. Including your Leka Gashi.’

‘So Gashi is involved?’

‘About as deep as you can get. He’s known Blaydon for years, from the Corfu days, and he may even have helped him get rid of his partner Norman Peel, all those years ago. Though we’ll never prove that. But Gashi and his heavies took over the county line from a dealer called Lenny G, who was a pussycat by comparison. He turned up gutted in the Leeds-Liverpool Canal a few weeks ago.’

‘Charming. What’s Blaydon’s part in all this?’

‘I was just coming to that. He’s not directly involved, as far as we know, but he’s business partners with Gashi and does him little favours now and then. Like you said, Blaydon likes to think he’s playing with the big boys. I think Gashi probably treats him like a gofer, but it gives him the criminal’s credibility he seems to crave. That and the drugs and girls it gives him access to. He’s quite famous for his parties. I walked in on one a few days ago.’

Joanna raised an eyebrow. ‘And?’

‘It was a sort of aftermath, really, but quite interesting. The morning after. A few people sleeping, one or two lounging about in the pool, a couple of naked girls, three people having sex in one of the bedrooms.’

‘You sound envious.’

‘Not at all. Especially as the girls were young enough to be his granddaughters. Besides, once you’ve talked to Zelda, you can never be sure that someone like that doesn’t come from a similar background of trafficking and slavery and sexual abuse.’