Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

‘Why did you do that? Why are you being so helpful to Zelda?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Banksy. I might not be as soft-hearted as you — or maybe I am getting soft in my old age — but I’m not the cold and calculating bastard you sometimes paint me as. I don’t know this Zelda. I’ve never met her. But a woman like her, what she’s been through, what she’s suffered, it almost beggars the imagination. You’ve met her, and you know her. And I trust your judgement, even if I do think it’s a little biased by female pulchritude. God knows, I’ve made enough errors in that direction myself, over the years. But can you imagine the effect that being interrogated might have on her, not to mention any detention and imprisonment that might result? Does it sound so strange that I don’t particularly want her put through the ringer with Danvers and Debs and Ted Barclay? If she’s as fragile as many of the women who’ve been through what she’s been through, it could do her permanent damage. I don’t think she’s killed anyone. Not Hawkins. Not Faye Butler. If I thought she had, I’d have her in before her feet could touch the street. But she knows something. It’s all connected. I’m giving you the chance to find out what that is. And now Keane’s involved, too. You know he is. And don’t forget that photograph of him with Petar Tadić. Petar is certainly a person of interest, along with his brother Goran. These are people from Zelda’s past, and now they’re starting to figure in our present. It’s all tangled up in a knot, and until we manage to sort out one or two threads, your lady friend is going to be a target. You can help her, Banksy. I’m giving you the chance. Talk to her. Loosen her up a bit. Are you going to take it?’

He was right, Banks knew. Zelda affected a tough veneer, but he had seen beyond that to the seething fears, anxieties and conflicting emotions underneath; the guilt and self-loathing, shame, despair, and depression that she tried to suppress and overcome. He saw something else, too, a sort of steely purpose, a sense of quest or mission, perhaps.

Banks shook his head slowly, reached for his glass and murmured, ‘Of course I’m going to bloody well take it. Of course I am.’

By the time Lupescu came around, Zelda had him trussed up on the sofa. As soon as he realised the predicament he was in, he asked for a glass of water and a bottle of pills from the kitchen table. Zelda checked the pills. They were sublingual nitroglycerin, for angina. He drank the water first then put a pill under his tongue. She used a damp cloth to wipe the blood from the side of his head. He winced as she did so.

‘What is it you want?’ he said. ‘Money?’

Zelda took out her knife and glanced around at the paintings. ‘Seems as if you have plenty to spare,’ she said. ‘It must have been hard buying all this artwork on an orphanage director’s salary.’ Zelda touched the knife to his throat. He flinched. ‘You can cut the lies and excuses. We both know what you did. You sold me to the Tadić brothers. Me and the other girls.’

‘Who?’

Zelda was thrown. Was she wrong about all this? Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? ‘The Tadić brothers,’ she repeated. ‘Petar and Goran.’

‘I don’t know them.’

Of course not. ‘Just the drivers,’ Zelda whispered, almost to herself. Then she prodded him again and drew a bead of blood. ‘You dealt with their boss, didn’t you? Who was he?’

‘I still don’t know who you’re talking about.’ She could tell from his eyes that he was lying now.

‘The man you sold us to. Would you rather I went to the authorities and told them my story? Then they could investigate your actions and your finances, find other girls to testify against you. Send you to jail. Confiscate everything you own.’

‘Or what? Or you’ll kill me? You’re going to kill me, anyway, aren’t you?’

‘Perhaps. But whatever happens, I want to hear you admit what you did to me and the others first.’

Lupescu paused, as if weighing his chances, determining which direction to go. He licked his lips. ‘All right, then. Say I did what you’re accusing me of. What then?’

‘Don’t you think you deserve punishment?’

‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Lupescu said. ‘I’m not a monster or a pervert. They forced me to do it.’

‘Forced you? How?’

‘They threatened my family.’

Zelda felt as if a trickle of icy water had run down her spine. ‘They did what?’

‘They threatened me. My daughters. The twins. They were thirteen at the time. Thirteen . And the man said if I didn’t do what he asked, he would take them and my wife instead and put them in brothels so bad they would be dead within a week.’

Zelda let her knife hand drop, though she held on to the handle. She had known brothels like that but survived to tell the tale. Lupescu was shaking now, with tears in his eyes. If he was lying, she thought, he was a good actor. But how could she tell? She had assumed that Buckley had nothing to do with what happened, but she could even be wrong about that. Was she judging the man who gave the books against the man who sat in the office? But no. She must stop second-guessing herself. William Buckley had nothing to do with St. George’s apart from donating the boxes of books. Zelda had never seen or heard of him before yesterday. But Lupescu was there all the time, handled the day-to-day running of the place, knew who was leaving, when and how, where they were going. Maybe he was forced into it, as he claimed, but he was certainly guilty of it.

‘What did they ask you to do?’ she went on.

‘Tip them off when a pretty girl was leaving. I didn’t know what they were going to do with you.’

‘I’ll bet you had a good idea.’

‘I didn’t ask. I couldn’t let myself think about it. My lovely twins... my wife...’ Lupescu hung his head. ‘Please believe me.’

Zelda passed him the water again. ‘How many girls?’

He looked up, horrified, and after a brief silence whispered, ‘Twelve.’

Zelda froze. Twelve girls . Sold into slavery like her. How many hadn’t survived? How many had killed themselves or tried to escape and been beaten to death? How many had died of disease, drugs, or violence? It hardly bore thinking about. How could Lupescu live with himself? She felt the anger rise in her, and her hand tightened around the knife handle as she raised it. Lupescu shuddered and cringed like a frightened reptile, edging away as best he could. ‘No!’ he said. ‘It wasn’t my fault. I had to do it. You must understand. I had to! For my family.’

‘You could have gone to the police.’

‘That wouldn’t have stopped them. You know that. There are always more. And they buy the police.’

‘This man who came to you. What was his name?’

‘I don’t know. Honestly. He was Hungarian. He was in charge. I just called him The Hungarian.’

‘What about the money?’

‘What money?’

Zelda gestured around the house with the knife blade. ‘Come on. All this. The house, the works of art. Like I said before, you couldn’t afford it on your orphanage director’s salary. How much did they pay you?’

Lupescu hung his head again, and when he spoke he muttered so softly that she could barely hear him. ‘Five thousand dollars for each girl.’

Zelda felt her muscles tense and the breath tighten in her throat. So that was what her life had been worth. Five thousand dollars. They had made more than that out of her in the first few months. Multiply that by twelve. And the years. She couldn’t stop herself from slapping him backhanded across the face, hard. He grunted and his top lip split, spilling blood on to his chin. She hit him again.