He wondered how Tracy and Mark were getting on in Tenerife, where they had gone for their honeymoon. He was glad they had decided against a destination wedding, unlike so many other young couples these days. It was selfish in the extreme, he thought, going off to Cyprus or Malta to get married when half your family either couldn’t afford to attend, or were too old and ill to travel. Healthy and independent as they were, Banks’s parents wouldn’t have been willing or able to travel so far for their granddaughter’s wedding.
Tonight Banks felt restless for some reason, and he couldn’t settle down with the guitar. He was sick to death of playing ‘Bobby Shafto’ but seemed unable to move beyond it. He searched through YouTube for interesting music and ended up watching a few Grateful Dead concert clips.
Halfway through a fine ‘Scarlet Begonias,’ Banks’s mobile played its blues riff. He was in half a mind not to answer, but habit kicked in and he put the TV on pause and picked it up. It was going on for eleven o’clock, and he always felt a tremor of apprehension when the phone rang so late. Had something happened to Tracy? Or Brian?
He recognised the number as Ray Cabbot’s. Puzzled, he answered, but couldn’t make out what Ray was saying at first. He asked him to repeat it, and this time it came through loud and clear: ‘She’s gone,’ Ray said. ‘It’s Zelda. She’s gone.’
7
Lit by Banks’s headlights, the B-road to Lyndgarth unfurled like a ribbon over the moorland, passing by fast-flowing becks and grassy hillocks, until the lights of the village came into view, nestled in a hollow and scattered around the lopsided village green. It stood at the junction of Swainsdale and Lyndsdale, where the river Lynd joined the Swain. Just a couple of miles to the north, the valley sides rose steeply on either side to form two curved limestone scars. It never got completely dark at that time of year, and a three-quarter moon made the scars stand out like bands of light floating above the darkness of the valley.
Banks drove along the high street, beside the green, past the chapel, two of the village’s three pubs and the Spar general store, then turned left and carried on west for another mile or so until he pulled up at the short turn-off for Ray Cabbot’s cottage. All the lights were on. Ray must have heard the car coming, or seen its lights, as he was standing in the doorway smoking and waiting.
When they went inside to the living room, Ray stubbed out his cigarette and poured himself a generous measure of single malt. He offered the bottle, but Banks declined. Ray’s hands were shaking as he lifted the glass to his mouth.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I should never have left her.’
‘Calm down and tell me what happened,’ said Banks.
‘I don’t know what happened. All I know is she’s gone.’
‘There’s no note or anything?’
‘No.’
‘What time did you get back from Leeds?’
‘Around half ten. The lecture finished at nine so I headed straight back after a few questions. I was worried about Zelda. I told you we’d parted on bad terms. She was upset, angry. I wanted to... I mean...’ He put his glass down and hung his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Christ, Alan, what am I to do?’
Banks touched his shoulder. ‘Try to stay calm, Ray. Did she take anything with her? A suitcase, clothing?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t checked. But her car’s still here, round back.’
‘She can’t have got far then. Are you sure she isn’t at a friend’s house in the village? Or in the pub?’
‘She wouldn’t do that. I mean, she doesn’t really have any close friends in the village. People are still a bit frosty. We do go to the pub. Mick Slater, the landlord, is a decent guy. But I don’t think she’d go there by herself, especially not at night. You don’t understand, Alan. When I said she was gone, I didn’t mean gone as in she’d left of her own free will. I meant she’s gone as in she’s been taken.’
‘How do you know?’
Ray jerked his head towards the back of the house. ‘Her studio. It’s a mess. Like... I don’t know.’ He put his hand to his chest.
‘OK?’ Banks asked.
‘Fine. I just get a bit breathless sometimes, a bit of tightness in the chest, especially when I’m upset.’
‘You should go see a doctor.’
‘Bah. Waste of time.’
Banks brought him a glass of water from the kitchen, touched his shoulder and said, ‘Stay here. Take it easy.’
Then Banks walked out back and across the stretch of grass to the large garden shed that served as Zelda’s studio. The door was wide open and the lights on. Inside, there was enough room for her to set up an easel to paint, or tools to sculpt, and a workbench where she crafted jewellery, but not much more.
In the far corner, undamaged, stood a stack of canvases and sketches, mostly imitations of famous artists — Magritte, Modigliani, Hockney, Dali. They were good copies, though mostly unfinished. Zelda was a skilled imitator, but she wasn’t a forger. She had never tried to pass any of them off as originals. On the other hand, if you wanted a competent version of A Bigger Splash or a Modigliani nude to hang on your wall, she could knock one off for you, for a price.
Banks saw what Ray meant about the mess. There had clearly been some sort of struggle near the door. A wine glass lay shattered on the floor, its contents splattered all over the threadbare carpet. The easel had been knocked over, paints spilled, a work in progress ruined, and Banks saw what he thought to be a smear of blood on the workbench, though he supposed it could be paint or red wine. There was a smell of turpentine and oil. On her workbench, Zelda had a small vise and set of tiny engraving tools for her delicate jewellery work. He leaned forward and examined the vise closely. There was no blood on it, and it didn’t appear as if it had been used to crush her fingers or toes. That was something to be grateful for. Banks left the workshed as it was and went back to the main house.
‘See what I mean?’ Ray said. ‘Someone took her against her will.’ He was smoking another roll-up, taking short, nervous drags.
‘Are you sure you didn’t have a fight and throw stuff around and she walked out?’
‘Of course not. Don’t be so bloody silly. You saw the state of her studio. You surely can’t believe I did that? Or Zelda herself? I told you we had an argument earlier, but not a stand-up, drag-down fight. I’ve never once been violent towards her.’
‘It looks like there was some sort of struggle,’ Banks said. ‘Have you checked the rest of the house to see if she’s hiding anywhere? Or hurt.’
‘First thing I did. She’s not here.’
‘Let’s check her clothes,’ said Banks. ‘You can tell me if anything’s missing.’
Ray stubbed out the cigarette. They went upstairs and Ray led him into a small bedroom. ‘This is hers,’ he said.
‘You mean you...?’
‘We have separate bedrooms,’ Ray said.
The room was neat and tidy and showed no traces of a struggle whatsoever. The walls were painted in pastel greens and yellows, hung with random sketches and paintings, and the duvet was burgundy. Banks and Ray searched through the wardrobe and drawers. When they had finished, Ray said, ‘No. As far as I can tell, everything’s where it should be. But I don’t... you know... I didn’t keep an inventory. I’m not saying there isn’t a T-shirt or a pair of knickers missing. But she didn’t have a lot of clothes. It seems normal to me.’
‘What about the surrounding countryside? Have you been out searching for her?’
‘No. I haven’t had a chance yet. I phoned you pretty much straight away, soon as I’d seen the studio and checked the house.’