Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

Zelda shrugged. ‘Worthwhile has nothing to do with it. You should know better than anyone that it all comes down to budgets.’

‘The NCA’s never been short of cash, as far as I know,’ said Banks. ‘I doubt that’s the only reason.’

‘It’s not,’ said Zelda. ‘Naturally the death of Mr. Hawkins caused quite an upset, even though they say they don’t suspect foul play. The temporary shutdown was the perfect excuse to cut the department completely.’

Banks passed her the water bottle. She tilted it and drank. Banks watched her throat muscles move as she swallowed. ‘I don’t think Danvers and Debs are convinced that there was no foul play,’ he said, ‘but they’ve got no evidence of any wrongdoing.’ Zelda passed back the bottle. Banks took several swigs and a few deep breaths of fresh air, then said, ‘Shall we carry on?’

Zelda slid off the wall. They were on the Roman road that ran diagonally down the hillside all the way to Fortford, which had been the main settlement in Roman times. It was a stony path, used as a drover’s road now, and had low drystone walls running along both sides broken by the occasional farm gate. It was broad enough for them to walk side by side, which they did. Once they had to slow down when they got behind a farmer moving his sheep across the road from one field to another. He said hello to Banks and asked how he was.

‘Do you know everyone?’ Zelda asked when they had passed.

Banks laughed. ‘Not quite. But it’s surprising the people you get to know when you do my job.’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Take old Tibor there. He had some of his sheep rustled a while back. It was an organised gang, all over the county, so we were involved.’

‘Did you get them back?’

‘Not much chance of that. They were probably in Bulgaria by then. Or a butcher’s shop window. Now we even have rustling gangs who butcher the sheep in the field in the dark and take only the meat.’

‘How horrible,’ Zelda said. ‘Tibor? That’s an odd name for a Yorkshireman, isn’t it?’

‘Tibor’s family came over from Poland just before the war to escape the Nazis. We have a long history of immigration in this part of the world, quite a patchwork inheritance, a sort of international brotherhood of farmers. Working the land is a tough job.’

As they walked on, Banks noticed Zelda glance over her shoulder once or twice, as if to make sure they weren’t being followed. Flies buzzed around their heads, along with the occasional wasp, but other than that, it was mostly silent save for their footsteps and a few birds singing. They saw rabbits running in the fields and, once, a hedgehog curled up among the wildflowers by the roadside. A curlew flew over their heads making its high plaintive trill, and Banks pointed it out to Zelda. Only one couple passed them, going the other way, giving the usual Yorkshire greeting: a nod and a grunt.

‘Nice day,’ said Banks.

The man pointed to the sky. ‘Aye. Won’t last, though, like as not.’

After about half an hour, Banks led the way over a stile and across a field to a winding lane. On the way, they got too close to a tewit’s nest and set off a flutter of frightened and angry squeaking. They could see a cluster of low stone buildings ahead, and Banks pointed. ‘Lunch,’ he said.

Zelda wiped her brow with the back of her hand, smiled, and said, ‘In the nick of time.’

‘Where did you learn your English?’ Banks asked as they headed towards the Relton Arms. ‘I’m not being patronising. I just mean you seem to have all the idioms and everything. Things people pick up over a lifetime.’

‘I’ve always had a knack for languages,’ Zelda said. ‘I listen. Most of the nuns at the orphanage spoke English, and we had lessons from a very early age. I read a lot. When I was in London and later, at Raymond’s commune in St. Ives, I watched a lot of British television. Not so much now. But I write in English. I even think in English.’

‘I had more than enough trouble learning French at school,’ Banks said.

‘Oh, French is easy.’ Zelda put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to boast.’

‘No, it’s all right. I just wish I had your language skills, that’s all. I’m envious.’

They entered the tiny hamlet of Relton, halfway up the hillside, passed the small general store with its Walls ice cream board propped outside and approached the whitewashed facade of the Relton Arms.

‘Ah,’ said Zelda. ‘Now it begins.’

‘What?’

‘You know. The interrogation. The grilling. The thumbscrews. The rack.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, come on, Alan. You didn’t bring me all this way just for the pleasure of my company. You want something. I can tell. You’ve been edgy and evasive all the way here.’

Banks could have complimented her on the pleasure of her company, but decided it wasn’t appropriate. ‘I do have a few questions for you,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s all. No thumbscrews. No rack.’

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘And you’re not going to arrest me?’

Banks laughed. ‘Should I? Have you committed a crime?’

‘Don’t joke,’ Zelda said. ‘I’m serious.’

‘No, I’m not going to arrest you. Now shall we go inside and order some drinks and food? I could murder a pint, myself.’

Annie made her way past the flashing screens, and the pings, screeches, bangs, and screams of a video arcade in full flight at school lunchtime. Negotiating the narrow path between the machines felt like walking the gauntlet, and with so much sunlight outside, she wondered why it was always so dark in these places. Lack of windows seemed to be the answer.

‘Excuse me,’ she mumbled, pushing her way through a cluster of lads from Eastvale Comprehensive busy splattering aliens into millions of pieces as they stuffed themselves with Greggs sausage rolls. They shifted only grudgingly, and Annie heard one of them whisper, ‘Pushy cunt, she must be on the rag,’ as she passed by. The others giggled. She chose to let it go. That wasn’t what she was here for. She did, however, turn around and have a quick glance at the speaker, committing his face to memory. Satisfied she would know him if she saw him again, maybe smoking a joint down Casper’s Wynde, she moved on.

It was turning out not to be her lucky day. Tommy Kerrigan was the only one in the cramped office at the back. The Stan Laurel of the two. She had hoped it might be his brother Timmy, who, though much larger and thereby taking up more valuable office space, was marginally more pleasant. At least he was civil and didn’t give her the creeps the way the long, lugubrious pasty-faced Tommy did, with his milky eye and all. He looked like a cross between a funeral director and a vampire, and though nothing serious had ever been proven against him, he was known to have psychopathic tendencies. He also suffered from halitosis, which was definitely a minus in such a confined space.

There was room for one small chair on the opposite side of his desk, and Annie shifted some papers and sat down.

‘Well, well, look what the cat’s dragged in,’ Tommy said. ‘Detective Sergeant Annie Cabbot. We’ll have to stop meeting like this or people will talk.’

‘Detective Inspector ,’ Annie corrected him. Even his voice was annoying, Annie remembered. An affected southern drawl with a nasal edge of Geordie.

‘Well, pardonnez-moi .’

‘You should do something about your clientele,’ Annie said. ‘They’re an ignorant bunch of yobs out there, feeding their faces and insulting your visitors.’

‘They’re not supposed to bring food in the arcade,’ said Tommy. ‘There’s a sign. But what can you do? I’m short-staffed.’