Peter Robinson - Not Dark Yet

‘We’d better go in,’ he said. ‘It’s going to rain.’

Annie said nothing at first, then she tightened her lips and stalked off ahead of him towards the door. It was going to be a long haul.

Croatia was basking in late afternoon sunshine when Banks left his rental car at the bottom of the hill and started walking up the dirt path.

He hadn’t got very far when a muscular young man with no neck appeared in front of him, cradling a Kalashnikov AK-47 in his arms. The man said something guttural in what Banks assumed to be Croatian, and Banks said he didn’t understand, that he was English, his name was Alan Banks, and he would like to see Nelia Melnic. The man gave him a suspicious glance, pointed to the ground and said, ‘You stay here,’ then made his way up the hill. In case Banks had any fancy ideas about disobeying the command, another man, looking exactly the same as the first one, appeared, also cradling an AK-47. Banks considered asking him whether the weapon was legal but decided against it.

The first man came back, examined the package Banks was carrying and twitched his head in the direction of the summit. Banks followed him. They arrived at a high stone wall topped with broken glass set in concrete. The man opened the spiked wrought-iron gates and gestured Banks through. He was out of breath and paused for a moment to rest. In front of him stood a petite woman in her early sixties with short silver hair and pale blue eyes that had seen far more than anyone ought. Her wiry body looked strong, as if she had done much manual labour. She held out her hand in greeting and walked forward. Banks shook it. Her grip was firm and her hand calloused.

‘Please forgive me if I ask for some identification,’ she said.

Banks noticed that his guide with the Kalashnikov was lingering by the gate. Only when he had shown his warrant card and the woman nodded did he disappear.

‘One can’t be too careful,’ she said.

‘Is Nelia here?’

‘She is.’

‘You must be Mati.’

The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘And you must be a very good detective.’

‘I have my sources,’ Banks said.

The woman started walking over the final gentle slope of grass past the side of the house. Banks walked in step beside her. ‘Will you tell me why you want to see her?’ she asked.

Banks paused for a moment. ‘Her partner, Ray Cabbot. I’m afraid he died.’

Mati stopped in her tracks. ‘Raymond? Dead?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘A few weeks ago. It took me a while to find you.’

‘That’s good. I mean that it took the great detective a long time. We depend on being a needle in a haystack. But this news. It is very bad for Nelia. She is not strong.’

‘It’s not something I’ve been looking forward to,’ said Banks. ‘But she should know.’

Mati started walking again. ‘Yes. Of course she must know. Please, sit over there and wait.’ She pointed to a white table with matching chairs on the edge of a promontory overlooking the Adriatic. ‘Forgive me if I do not invite you into the main house, but some of the girls... they are not yet ready to see a man again. I have to keep my sons away, too, and they are the gentlest people you could ever hope to meet.’

Banks flashed on the neckless pair cradling their Kalashnikovs. Gentle wasn’t the first word that had come to his mind, but he believed her.

Banks sat down at the table and faced the sea. The water ranged from pale green to deep blue and all shades in between. Small crafts and fishing boats bobbed between the islands, and far out to sea he could see the white bulk of a cruise liner. A light refreshing salt breeze blew up from the water. There was a bottle of Plavac on the table, already open, along with two glasses, and Banks saw no reason not to pour himself one.

‘Pour one for me, too, please, Alan.’

The voice from behind startled him. He hadn’t heard her approach. Instead of pouring, he stood up and faced Zelda again, at last.

She wore a simple, shapeless grey shift and her face was bare of make-up. Her hair was cut very short — not professionally, by the looks of it — and there was a strange pale luminosity about her skin and her eyes he had never noticed before. In an odd way, she reminded him of those old posters of Jean Seberg playing Joan of Arc. She was certainly a long way from the Zelda of Ray’s unfinished portrait. Was this one face of her that Ray had never seen? She was still beautiful, Banks thought, but now her beauty was of a different kind altogether.

They sat, and Banks poured the wine. ‘So,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Here you are.’

‘Here I am. How did you find me?’

‘It’s my job. Don’t you remember what a great detective I am?’

Zelda managed a smile. ‘Of course.’

‘There were clues. Your past. Your books — the stories of abused women. The time you mentioned visiting an old friend in Croatia who ran a hostel for girls who had escaped sexual slavery. And this.’ Banks handed her the Moleskine notebook.

‘You read it?’

‘Yes.’

Zelda flushed and set it down on the table.

‘Keep it,’ Banks said.

Zelda slipped the notebook in a pocket in her shift. ‘So now you know all my secrets.’

‘Hardly.’

Zelda hung her head. ‘At least you know the very worst.’

Banks leaned forward and took her hand. She seemed surprised but didn’t snatch it back. ‘Zelda,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but it’s Ray. I’m afraid—’

‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes. How did you know?’

‘I didn’t know. But I had a strange dream. What happened?’

‘His heart. It happened quickly. There was nothing to be done.’

‘The stubborn old fool,’ she said. ‘He would never go to the doctor. I told him many times. Those pains in his chest. The short breath. The coughing. He...’ But the tears pouring down her face got in the way of talking, and soon her whole body was wracked with sobs. Banks let her cry. He had come forearmed and handed her a clean white handkerchief.

After a while, the sobbing ebbed away and she seemed to compose herself. She gulped down some wine. ‘What’s that package you brought?’ she asked.

Banks handed her the tube. She opened it and unrolled Ray’s last painting, the portrait of her. ‘Annie wanted you to have it,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ Zelda studied the picture and put it aside, a strange sad smile on her face. ‘How is she?’

‘Surviving. It’s hard.’

‘Yes. I imagine so.’ Zelda paused. ‘I was going to go back, you know,’ she said. ‘One way or another. I didn’t know when. But I was going to go back.’

Banks squeezed her hand. ‘I know you were. It’s one of those things beyond our control, Zelda. There was nothing to be done. Ray was Ray. He lived his life the way he wanted, and none of us would have changed him for anything. He was lucky to know you in these last few years. Lucky to know such happiness at the end. He knew that.’

Zelda regarded him with her damp eyes. ‘ I was lucky to know him ,’ she said. ‘You might think we had a strange relationship, that he was too old for me, but it worked. For both of us. We didn’t... you know... I’m no use that way. But Raymond understood.’

‘I don’t judge you, Zelda, or your relationship. You know better than that.’

She gently disengaged her hand from his and patted his wrist to assure him it wasn’t an angry gesture. ‘I should do,’ she said. ‘And I’m Nelia now.’ Then they both took a long sip of wine. It seemed to go straight to Banks’s head, which was either something to do with its extraordinary strength, or the sun and sea. ‘But you read the notebook,’ she went on. ‘You know about Darius and Goran. And later Petar and your enemy Keane. That’s four people I’ve killed, Alan. I’m cursed. Bad to know.’