Peter Robinson - Many Rivers to Cross

‘But Blaydon didn’t kill the Syrian boy?’

‘Samir. No. That was a different thing altogether. A different set of unfortunate circumstances. Coincidences, if you like. Of course, the culprits denied it at first, but we got it out of them. We found both their fingerprints matched some on the wheelie bin Samir was dumped in. First Chris Myers, the one who didn’t actually stab Samir, cracked and told us his mate Jason Bartlett did it. Then when we confronted Bartlett with the DNA evidence and his friend’s statement, he broke down and confessed. All above board. Solicitors present, and all. And both are eighteen, so they’ll be facing adult court and adult prison time.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘It is. It’s a great waste. But it’s not half as fucking sad as what happened to Samir. Pardon my French.’

Joanna smiled and patted his arm. ‘You’re forgiven.’

‘It seems Bartlett had taken to carrying a knife ever since his sister was attacked and sexually assaulted on her way home from a school dance over a month ago. Just a kitchen knife with a four-inch blade, but it was long enough and sharp enough to kill Samir. He says he threw it in the river later. There’s not much chance of our finding it. According to his head teacher, Jason Bartlett has got some rather nasty racist views. I read an article he wanted to publish in the school magazine, saw the websites he visits, and it’s true. The usual diatribe against immigrants, especially Muslims and everyone with a darker skin colour than himself. We also found some nasty white supremacy sites bookmarked in his Internet browsing history. Anyway, it seemed he somehow half-convinced his sister that she’d been attacked by a dark-skinned man, even though she maintained at first, and later on, that she hadn’t seen her attacker, not even his hand.’

‘So he was already wound up and jumpy about immigrants?’

‘Yes. Just when you start to think that this generation has got beyond the racism of your own, someone like Bartlett comes along.’

‘It’ll always be around. You know that. What happened on the night of the murder?’

‘Two worlds collided. It was Samir’s first time in Eastvale as a line manager for Gashi. The poor kid had been through hell. I’m not saying he didn’t know he was doing wrong, but these people groomed him and exploited him. So he came up here on the bus with a backpack full of heroin and crack cocaine and headed straight for Stokes’s house. Unfortunately, when he got there, Stokes was dead from an overdose. We think it was either accidental or self-administered, and we may never know which. Anyway, Samir freaked and rang Gashi, who happened to be down in London on business at the time. Gashi phoned Blaydon, who was dining nearby at Le Coq d’Or, and asked him for a favour.’

‘Lucky him,’ said Joanna. ‘It’s a really great restaurant.’

‘You’ve eaten there?’

‘Yes. Why not?’

‘The price, for a start.’

‘Let’s just say I had a generous boyfriend.’

‘Had?’

She thumped him playfully and picked up her glass. ‘Get back to your story. Blaydon was having dinner at Le Coq d’Or.’

‘With the Kerrigans, who are in cahoots with him on the Elmet Centre development, as you know. Anyway, Gashi asked Blaydon to drive to Eastvale — he didn’t know he was already there — and pick up Samir, who was still upset at finding Stokes dead, and drive him back to Leeds. Blaydon was having too much fun eating his snails and frog’s legs, so he dispatched his driver, Frankie Wallace, to go pick up Samir.’

‘You know, you’re showing your ignorance as well as your prejudice when it comes to French food. It’s a racial stereotype. They don’t have—’

‘Frog’s legs or snails at Le Coq d’Or. I know. Marcel McGuigan told me. It was just a figure of speech.’

‘You talked to Marcel McGuigan?’

‘Had to do. He was Blaydon’s alibi.’

‘But he’s... I mean, he’s a foodie GOD. Have you any idea what he can do with sweetbreads?’

‘I don’t, actually. I’m not that much into puddings. But I know about McGuigan. Michelin stars and all that. He’s really quite a nice bloke. No pretensions, down to earth. By the way, he offered me a free dinner any time I want. With a guest of my choice.’

Joanna narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s playing dirty. If you think...’

‘I told him no, I couldn’t possibly. It might be misconstrued.’

‘You’re right, I suppose.’

Banks smiled. ‘I could always say I’ve changed my mind...’

‘Don’t hold your breath. Back to the night of the murder.’

Banks drank some more beer and went on. Françoise Hardy gave way to the late great Scott Walker singing ‘Joanna’.

Joanna MacDonald’s ears perked up on hearing her name. One or two people who knew who she was were looking towards her with silly grins on their faces. ‘Did you do that to embarrass me?’ she whispered at Banks.

‘Me? I have no control over Cyril’s playlists,’ Banks said. ‘Don’t you know the song?’

‘No.’

‘It’s Scott Walker.’

‘Just go on with your story.’

‘Right. Frankie entered through the back door,’ Banks went on. ‘He’s an ex-boxer and can look like a terrifying figure with all his scar tissue and so on, especially to a young lad, I should imagine. Anyway, Samir got scared and ran off through the front door and turned right, towards the park at the bottom of Elmet Hill. That was the last we could find out about his movements until we interviewed Chris Myers and Jason Bartlett. It turns out they’re the best of friends, and they both enjoy the occasional joint, so they’d got in the habit of heading down to the park after dark and smoking up in the bushes. There was never anyone around in the park at that time, they said, and they were pretty well hidden from the main path and Cardigan Drive. After that, it all happened so fast, Chris Myers told us. Samir came bursting from the trees and startled them. Without thinking, Jason just reacted, got out his knife and lunged. He might have thought Samir was carrying a weapon, but there’s no evidence of that, despite what he says. He was stoned, too, so his senses were befuddled. And it was dark. He saw a dark-skinned guy, and with all that was going around in his head at the time, he just lashed out. Sadly, he did it with a very sharp knife and managed to puncture Samir’s aorta.’

‘Christ,’ said Joanna. ‘What a story. I suppose they panicked then?’

‘That’s right. They couldn’t revive Samir, and after a while they figured out he was dead. They couldn’t very well leave him there, either. Much too close to home. It was Chris’s idea, apparently, to move him, so he got his car and parked it in a lay-by on Cardigan Drive right next to the bushes. They got Samir in the boot without anyone seeing and thought it would be best to dump him on the East Side Estate, where they thought the police would expect to find someone like him.’

‘A drug dealer? Did they know him? Did they buy drugs from him?’

‘No. They didn’t know what he was doing in Eastvale. The county lines operation didn’t deal in marijuana. Not enough profit in it, I suppose. The line dealt more addictive products — coke, crack, heroin. And Samir had just arrived in Eastvale that evening to take Greg Janson’s place. They didn’t know him from Adam. Chris Myers told us eventually that they bought the pot from a bloke in a pub near the college.’ Banks shrugged. ‘Maybe that’s true. Anyway, I suppose it’s lucky for us that they forgot about the roaches and possible blood stains in their panic. But then there was no reason they would expect us to search the park if Samir’s body was found on the East Side Estate. And we didn’t. Not for quite a while. We were lucky the traces were still there. They had no idea of Samir’s connection with Hollyfield, that it would eventually come out and lead us to the park. They had no idea where or what he was running from. We wouldn’t have had, either, if Frankie Wallace hadn’t told us he saw Samir running in that direction.’