Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

She wandered the rooms and corridors in a daze until she came to an old storage room, which was still full of boxes and packing crates. It was in one of these that she discovered a damp, misshapen cardboard box full of old books, mostly water-damaged, mouldy and warped, with curled pages and stained covers. But they were the books she remembered, the English books: Jane Eyre, David Copperfield, Five Go to Mystery Moor, 4:50 From Paddington, The Sign of Four, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe . As she handled them, she felt tears burn in her eyes, and soon the sobbing wracked her body. She let herself slump on the filthy floor to cry. These were the kind of books that had filled her teenage hours with joy, romance, and adventure.

When the whirlwind of emotion passed, leaving Zelda feeling numb and tired again, she put back the soggy book she had been holding — The Wind in the Willows — and made to close the box. As she did so, she caught sight of a label affixed to the corner of one of the flaps. It was faded and almost completely peeled off, but when she got closer, she was able to make out a name and address: Vasile Lupescu, the name of the orphanage director, and the address of the place she was in. But there was a second name, unknown to her. It was an English name, William Buckley, and the address was in Suruceni, a village on the shores of Lake Danceni, about twenty kilometres west of Chișinău.

Was this, then, the address of her mysterious benefactor? She had always wondered who it was, where the books had come from. Was he still alive? Still in Suruceni? She hadn’t made any kind of plan beyond visiting the orphanage, hoping she might find some clue to Vasile Lupescu’s whereabouts. Everything had depended on what she discovered here. And now she had something concrete to go on. The first person she would go to for information was William Buckley.

All the outside tables were occupied, but Banks didn’t mind being relegated to the inside of the pub. They found a quiet corner and Banks fetched a pint of Theakston’s bitter for each of them. Brian was moderately famous, as a member of the Blue Lamps, and one or two of the drinkers stared as if they thought they recognised him but weren’t quite sure.

Cyril had recently installed some air-conditioning on the cheap, and it managed to send a blast of chill air across the room every two or three minutes. And then there was the background music, one of Cyril’s never-ending sixties playlists, always full of surprises. There was something about that era of early sixties pop, before it became ‘rock’ and started taking itself seriously, that smacked of innocence and the sheer joy of being young and alive. It was epitomised especially by the song playing at the moment: The Crystals singing ‘Then He Kissed Me.’ It sounded just like that first kiss tasted.

‘You all right, Dad?’ Brian asked.

‘Why? Don’t I look it?’

‘You seem a bit... I don’t know. Distracted.’

‘I suppose it was all the excitement of the wedding,’ he said. ‘The emotion. My little girl getting married. And seeing your mother again. It’s been quite a while. I suppose I’m feeling just a little bit sad. And old.’

‘Yeah, it was weird walking past where we used to live. Are you sure you’re OK, though?’

Banks swigged some beer. ‘Me? Course I am. Tough as old nails. It just feels like a momentous occasion. That’s all.’

‘It is for Tracy. What do you think of Mark?’

‘He’s all right, I suppose. Could be a bit more... you know... exciting. Adventurous.’

‘He’s an accountant, for crying out loud. What do you expect?’

Banks laughed. ‘I know. I know. And he does like Richard Thompson. That’s definitely a point in his favour. She could have done a lot worse.’

‘She almost did, as I remember.’

‘Yes.’ Banks remembered the time when Tracy had taken up with the archetypal ‘bad boy’ and almost got herself killed as a result.

‘So maybe a little dull isn’t too bad?’ Brian went on. ‘What about you, though? Still living the exciting copper’s life?’

‘It’s rarely exciting. But what else would I do?’

‘Same as everyone else your age, Dad. Putter about in the garden. Get an allotment. Ogle young women. Drink too much. Watch TV.’

Banks laughed. ‘I already do all those things. Except the allotment. Maybe I should write my memoirs?’

‘You always said you hated writing reports.’

‘Well... yes... but that’s different. Enough about me. What about you? The farewell tour? How’s it going?’

‘Great so far. Mum and Sean came to the London show. Are you coming to see us?’

‘Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. The Sage. I’ve already got the tickets. Ray and Zelda are coming, too.’

‘No date for you?’

‘Not these days, it seems. I think my allure must have deserted me.’ The music had changed again. Neil Sedaka was singing ‘Breaking Up is Hard to Do.’ He managed to make even such a sad song sound almost joyful. At that moment, Banks’s mobile played its blues riff. The number was withheld, but that happened often enough not to be a problem. He excused himself for a moment and went outside.

‘Yes?’

‘Banksy?’

It could only be Dirty Dick Burgess; no one else ever called him that. ‘Yes?’

‘Where are you? You sound funny.’

‘I’m standing in the market square outside the Queen’s Arms on my way to my daughter’s wedding reception. So make it fast.’

‘Sorry,’ said Burgess. ‘Give her my... you know...’

‘Right.’

‘Keeping busy?’

‘Oh, you know. The usual.’

‘Getting anywhere with the Blaydon murders yet?’

‘It’s still early days,’ said Banks. ‘As I said, I’m on my way to a rather important wedding reception. I’m guessing you’ve called for some other reason than to yank my chain?’

‘Oh, you’re no fun. But as a matter of fact, I have. You’re not the only one working on a dead-end murder investigation.’

‘Where do I come in?’

‘I don’t want to say too much over the phone, but I think we should meet and compare notes. Are you seriously busy?’

‘No. Well, yes, but... we’re trying to make a case against Leka Gashi and the Albanians for Blaydon’s murder. Trouble is, we don’t even know where they are.’

‘Leka Gashi and the Albanians,’ repeated Burgess. ‘Sounds like a rock band. Anyway, the Albanians can wait. They’ll be back. Don’t worry. You’ll nail them. Do you think your boss will let you come out to play?’

‘You want me to come down to London?’

‘I honestly can’t get away at the moment. Not for longer than an hour or two, and that won’t even cover the train ride. Meetings up to the eyeballs. Otherwise, as you know, nothing would please me more than a trip up north.’

Banks couldn’t always figure out when, or if, Burgess was being ironic.

‘I promise you it’ll be worthwhile,’ Burgess went on. ‘And if you can get here by lunch tomorrow, I’ll even buy. How’s that?’

‘An offer I can’t refuse.’

‘Excellent. Whenever you can make it. Pret on—’

‘Hang on a minute. I’m not going all that way to be fobbed off with Pret A Manger.’

‘Zizzi’s, then?’

‘You must be joking. Next thing you’ll be telling me it’s the NCA canteen.’

‘Do we have one? Well, it’s not going to be Gordon bloody Ramsay’s or Michel Roux’s, either, I can assure you.’

‘I’m sure you’ll find somewhere suitable. Text me in the morning.’

Zelda called at one of the car rental agencies she had passed earlier and managed to rent an old grey Skoda with a starfish crack on the windscreen and so many dents and scratches the young man at the counter didn’t even make her sign off on them.