Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

‘And Zelda’s part?’

‘Your Zelda was one of Darius’s favourites. Apparently, she was also very smart and she knew what was going on. And she spoke fluent Russian. Like your Pretty Woman film, one client came into her life and fell in love with her, what you would call a cabinet minister, with special responsibilities involving criminal intelligence and the police in general. My boss. Like your Home Secretary. He wanted her to change, wanted them to go away together. He was going to leave his wife and children for her.’

‘Emile?’ said Banks, remembering Zelda’s journal.

‘Yes. You know this? You know the full story?’

Banks glanced at the woman at the next table. She was in animated conversation with her friend and was paying not the slightest attention to him and Jean-Claude. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just a few fragments. Please go on. I promise not to interrupt again.’

‘When this... Emile... had an idea of what was going on, he devised a scheme. If Nelia could somehow get to Darius’s cache of blackmail material — especially the audio tapes — and either destroy it or hand it over to him, she would become a heroine of the French people. In secret, of course, as all the best heroes and heroines are.’

‘And here’s me thinking they were posthumous.’

‘Cynic. Well, not in this case.’

‘So how did it go wrong?’

‘It didn’t. Not until the end.’ He glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention. They weren’t. ‘None of this was for public consumption, but according to Nelia’s statement in camera , Darius came in while she was removing the documents from his safe. He saw what she was doing and attacked her, tried to kill her. In the struggle, she managed to grab a knife from the table and stabbed him several times. Then, when he was weakened and incapacitated, she slit his throat, just to make sure he was dead.’

‘And was he?’

‘Oh, yes. According to someone I know who was at the scene shortly after it happened, there was blood all over the place. The girl was calm as anything, like a zombie. In shock, no doubt.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She disappeared. The rumour was that she had, of course, been pardoned for what happened to Darius and spirited away. Many, many people who would never admit it publicly were secretly more than glad that he was dead and his cache of blackmail material destroyed. Beyond, that, I don’t know, except she was never mentioned again. You know more than I do about the aftermath and her later adventures. Emile must have got the French passport for her — he was certainly highly placed enough to do her that favour — and she cleared off, never to darken our shores again. It was to everyone’s advantage that the whole affair was hushed up and forgotten. Much went on behind closed doors, you understand. A scandal was narrowly avoided. The documents and tapes were destroyed, of course, a few low-profile arrests were made, and the girl had her freedom... There was only one extremely tragic consequence.’

‘Emile?’

‘Yes. Three months later he was killed in a road accident on his way back from a meeting in Strasbourg.’

‘Accident?’

Jean-Claude gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘So they said. And there was no evidence to the contrary. No witnesses, no forensic indications that he had done anything except fall asleep at the wheel and veer off the road into a convenient tree.’

‘Drugs?’

‘Toxicology showed nothing in his system except a small amount of alcohol. Not even enough to get him charged with driving under the influence.’

‘Darius’s partners, no doubt?’

‘Yes. Enforcers. But as far as we know they are all working for someone else now, peddling drugs in Marseilles. We keep an eye on them, of course, make sure they don’t end up back here, but without their leader, there’s not a lot of enthusiasm left in them for Paris.’

‘They’re not after Zelda?’

‘Darius’s women all drifted away after his death, some to other pimps, no doubt, and others to an escape from the life, and this Nelia was just one of them. It’s unlikely they would still be chasing her after all this time. Loyalty among crooks only goes so far and lasts so long.’

‘And Zelda hasn’t been seen or heard of here since?’

‘No,’ said Jean-Claude. ‘I will ask around, if you like. Get back to you tomorrow. But I still think the answer will be no.’

‘You would know if she had been seen over the past few days?’

‘Believe me, if she was here, I will know by tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Jean-Claude.’ That didn’t mean she hadn’t been back in secret, but from what he had heard, Banks now doubted that she would have chosen Paris as the first stop on her escape route. He would have to search further afield, if he was to search at all. He had hoped he might see her here, get a chance to talk and clear some things up, but perhaps it was best to simply let her be, let her live the rest of her life the way she wanted. God knows, she deserved it.

‘Tell me, Alain,’ Jean-Claude said. ‘This Nelia. Zelda. Are you in love with her?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Banks. ‘I realise that’s an unsatisfactory answer to your question, but I’ve asked it of myself, too, and the answer is the same. I don’t know. Besides, even if I am, it doesn’t matter. There could be no future for us, for many reasons.’

Their Calvados and tartes arrived. The woman at the next table took out a compact and checked her face in the mirror as she refreshed her lipstick, catching Banks’s eye briefly as she did so. He noticed a wedding ring on her left hand.

‘And that, mon ami, is that,’ said Jean-Claude. They clinked their Calvados glasses and drank. It was smooth as silk, but burned all the way down. ‘And now I have a question for you, Alain.’

‘What’s that?’

‘This Nelia. What is she really like?’

The following morning, Charlotte Westlake didn’t seem well rested at all. Her eyes were sunken and had bags beneath them. Her cheeks were sallow and even her hair seemed lacklustre.

Annie, on the other hand, was awake and raring to go after a restful night’s sleep. Gerry seemed bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, too.

‘Good breakfast?’ Annie asked Charlotte. She knew that the cells were comfortable enough and the food passable.

She got no answer.

‘Service OK?’

‘All right, all right,’ said Jessica Bowen. ‘Enough with the inappropriate humour. Just get on with the interview, if you don’t mind. The clock’s ticking.’

Annie picked up the threads again. ‘Remember, yesterday evening we were talking about your relationship with Connor Blaydon?’ she said to Charlotte. ‘Would you care to tell us exactly when and how it began?’

‘I don’t know where you’ve dug up all this rubbish from, but I don’t intend to dignify it with an explanation.’

‘How well do you get along with your mother?’ Annie asked.

‘My mother? What’s she got to do with all this?’

‘Quite a bit, as it turns out,’ said Annie. ‘Were you always close?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, she is my mother.’

‘And I understand that your husband’s and father’s deaths occurred rather close together.’

‘What is this? Are you trying to say I had something to do with my father’s death now? My husband’s? What is it with you?’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Annie. ‘A night’s rest doesn’t seem to have made you any more helpful or better tempered, does it?’

‘Rest? That’s a joke.’

‘Where are you going with this, DI Cabbot?’ asked Jessica Bowen. ‘I’m afraid you’re losing me, too.’

‘Just this,’ Annie went on. ‘In DC Masterson’s conversations with Mrs. Lynne Pollard we discovered—’