Peter Robinson: Many Rivers to Cross

But Banks brushed such wild and pointless thoughts aside. Blaydon had enjoyed flirting with the dark side, and it had swallowed him whole. Simple as that. Maybe they would catch the men who had done this, and maybe they wouldn’t. If the killers had any sense, they would be back in Albania by now.

‘Come on.’ Banks took Gerry gently by the arm and led her back outside, into the fresh air. She still seemed to be walking in a daze, and he wished he had a hip flask of whisky or brandy or something to put more of a spring in her step. There was sure to be some in the house, but it was best not to disturb anything more than he had done already.

They sat in silence on the parapet of the still fountain; only the birds singing in the trees that ringed the estate made any sounds. Banks phoned in for the full treatment — CSIs, uniformed officers, police surgeon, photographer, the lot — and before long he could hear the sounds of the emergency vehicles, distant at first, then getting louder and louder as they approached.

Raymond’s flight was late, and it had started to rain again by the time Zelda had negotiated their way out of Newcastle Airport. Leeds and Bradford would have been marginally closer, but the connection time with the flight from LA didn’t work out. So Newcastle it was.

They were soon heading south on the A1, past the Metro Centre, over the Tyne with its famous bridges and the Sage on its south bank in Gateshead. Then on past Team Valley and the Angel of the North, which Raymond said he had always thought looked like a rusty Spitfire standing on its tail.

But Raymond was tired after his long journey, and after a while of excited chat and numerous mentions of how glad he was to be back with Zelda, he drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat and Zelda concentrated on the road through the hypnotic rhythm of the windscreen wipers.

The rain was coming down quite heavily by the time they got back to the cottage above Lyndgarth, but inside it was still cosy and dry. While Raymond unpacked, Zelda put the kettle on and made a pot of tea, chatting about her time in London — the Picasso exhibition she had never seen, the theatre she had never attended, the book shopping she had never done. In his turn, Raymond told her about the parties and the meetings with fellow artists and gallery owners in New York and Los Angeles, and gave her as a present a tiny sketch by a famous artist he knew she admired.

Zelda made Raymond a bacon buttie — his favourite snack, and something he hadn’t been able to find in America. After that, they sat and sipped tea and talked until Raymond could no longer keep his eyes open.

While he slept, Zelda sat at the kitchen window with her laptop, half watching the rain running down the glass and distorting the rough moorland landscape beyond. She had certainly felt the isolation and wildness of the moors over the few days she had been alone there, after returning from Banks’s cottage. But she had adapted, got used to it again, and she thought she could be happy there.

As she flipped through her usual news sources, she came across a breaking story on Sky News headed POLICE FIND BODY OF MISSING WOMAN. It didn’t go into great detail but noted that the Metropolitan police had fished from the Thames the body of a woman called Faye Butler, who had been reported missing by her flatmate two days after failing to return home from her job at Foyles Books. The article didn’t say how she had died, but it made reference to multiple injuries and suggested that foul play was suspected.

Zelda felt her blood freeze in her veins. Faye Butler . She remembered talking to Faye, remembered her pixie-ish features, her excitement at believing she was talking to the NCA. They must have got to her very quickly, no doubt with Keane’s help. He knew where she worked.

The images whirled through Zelda’s mind — Petar Tadić and his thugs finding Goran’s body and removing it, following the trail of the mysterious woman Goran had met in the hotel bar, trying to work out where the connection lay, who had got to Goran and why, suspecting everyone close to them who was not one of them. Somehow or other — perhaps through Keane — the trail had led to Faye, an outsider who had hung out with them, and they had wanted to know who she had talked to and what she had told them. Perhaps Faye had simply ignored her advice and told them about the woman who had come to the store asking about her ex-boyfriend, or perhaps they had tortured her to get the information. They enjoyed inflicting pain. Maybe the interrogation had excited them, maybe they thought she knew more than she was telling. Whatever the reason, they really went to work on her, torturing her, no doubt, until she ended up dead.

But how much had Faye been able to tell them, and how much had they been able to work out from what she had said? Had they put two and two together?

Goran Tadić hadn’t recognised Zelda, she was certain of that, but it didn’t mean his brother wouldn’t, no matter how much she thought her appearance had changed. Most likely Petar and his cronies would have gained access to the hotel’s security cameras and captured her image from there. One thing was for certain: no matter how they might do it, if they found out who she was, they weren’t going to go to the police. Perhaps they didn’t know where Zelda lived yet, but they would find out. It was only a matter of how long it would take them. How could she stay here and put the man she loved in danger? But how could she just leave him? Should she put her trust in Alan Banks and tell him everything she knew? She might end up in jail, but at least she would still be alive and Raymond would be safe. But would he be? She remembered what had happened to Emile in Paris. When people like the Tadićs took their revenge, they took it on what you loved most.

Raymond stumbled down from the bedroom rubbing his eyes and asking what time it was. Zelda threw her arms around his neck, told him how much she loved him and how glad she was that he was back home, then she buried her head in the soft curve between his neck and shoulder and started to cry.

As usual, I have many people to thank for helping me get this book ready for publication and beyond, starting with my wife Sheila Halladay, who read the first draft and sent me back to the manuscript with many helpful suggestions. At Hodder & Stoughton, I would like to thank my editor Carolyn Mays and her assistant Madeleine Woodfield, along with the rest of the gang: Jamie Hodder-Williams, Lucy Hale, Kerry Hood, Steven Cooper and Sharona Selby. At McClelland and Stewart in Canada, thanks to Kelly Joseph, Jared Bland, Claire Pokorchak and Martha Leonard, and at William Morrow in the U.S.A., Emily Krump and Julia Elliott.

Also thanks to my agents Dominick Abel, David Grossman and Rosie and Jessica Buckman. I would also like to thank the overseas editors and translators who have stuck with me over the years. There are many others who contribute, including cover artists, book designers, proof-readers, sales reps, booksellers and librarians, and I would like to thank all those people. Thanks, too, to my readers, without whom all my efforts would be pointless.