He could just imagine their reactions to some of his work: ‘Hey, have a look at this one, Joe. Got a right set of knockers on her, she has.’ ‘I’ll bet that’s his missus.’ But what could he do? For better or for worse, they were the only people he could rely on to find Zelda. And Alan. Where was Alan? Organising things, he had said. Yet it all seemed so disorganised. He couldn’t see what sort of plan they were following, how they hoped to get anywhere closer to finding Zelda by going through his things. They would be in her drawers, too, fingering her underwear, her personal stuff. Making crude comments, holding things up for everyone to see.
Ray stood up and walked over to the back fence. He felt caged. Maybe he should go for a walk up Tetchley Fell? But the mere sight of it made him feel out of breath. He was in no fit shape to go hiking. He stubbed out his cigarette, went inside and stared longingly at the bottles of Macallans and Highland Park. He knew Banks wouldn’t mind if he helped himself to a tipple. The thing was, he felt like shit already, having drunk too much the previous night instead of sleeping. And he needed a clear head in case Zelda called.
But his head wouldn’t clear. Maybe a little drink would help. He took out his mobile for the umpteenth time and checked for missed calls. Nothing. The music finished, and he couldn’t be bothered putting anything else on. Images of Zelda terrified and bloody filled his mind again. He sat back down and put his head in his hands. He wished he were painting. Usually everything else went from his mind when he took a brush in his hand. But perhaps even that wouldn’t work this time, even if he was allowed back in his studio. This was too serious to permit easy escape, if only for a second.
He rolled another cigarette, pictured the bottles on the shelf inside. Then he heard a car pulling up out front and jumped up. They’d found her. Surely that’s what it was. Alan was hurrying to give him the good news. He left his roll-up burning in the ashtray and dashed through to the front of the house with visions of Zelda running into his arms.
Costa was usually busy after work, but Gerry and Tamara Collins managed to find a table for two in the back. After Gerry had brought the lattes, they settled down to talk amid the hubbub of conversation and the hoarse gurgling of the espresso machine. Tamara was probably about Gerry’s age, late twenties, and pretty in a sharp-featured, no-nonsense sort of way. Her clothes were conservative — white blouse, navy skirt, and jacket — as one would expect from a legal secretary.
Gerry took her notebook out. ‘How do you like your new job?’ she asked.
‘I’m very glad to have it.’
‘It’s a bit different from working for Mr. Blaydon, I should imagine?’
Her expression darkened. ‘Yes.’
‘How long did you work for him?’
‘Three years. But I was working for Mrs. Westlake.’
‘Technically, I know, but Blaydon employed both of you. Was he a good employer?’
‘The pay was OK, the hours not bad.’
‘And the boss?’
‘To be honest, I didn’t see very much of him. I worked at his office in Leeds. Mrs. Westlake was his personal assistant. She didn’t have anything to do with the property developments or the estate business, but she had an office there. Mind you, she wasn’t there all the time. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? If she was supposed to assist him, she probably had to be out and about a lot. And Mr. Blaydon himself was in and out, here and there. We didn’t see him very often. He travelled quite a lot. I think he had a yacht or something. It wasn’t as if we were all together in one big room. And he wasn’t a grabber, if that’s what you mean.’
‘He never behaved inappropriately?’
‘Oh, Lordy me, no.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘I had this job in my sights for a while. It’s closer to home and the pay’s much better. The work’s more interesting, too. The opportunity finally came up about a month ago.’
‘Did you ever get invited to one of Mr. Blaydon’s parties?’
Tamara laughed. ‘Me? Lord, no! Why would he invite me? I don’t think he even knew I existed. The parties were just to impress important people — friends, influencers, business colleagues, and so on.’
‘I understand he liked to have a few pretty women around, too.’
Tamara blushed. ‘Well, I certainly wasn’t one of them.’
‘Where did he get them from?’
‘How would I know? I just worked in the office. Basic secretarial duties for Mrs. Westlake.’
‘Where do you think?’
Tamara held her coffee cup in both hands. ‘I heard things, like you do.’
‘What things?’
‘Just the usual. Office gossip. You know, that he hired models to be nice to his guests.’
‘Models or escorts?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘What about drugs?’
‘Again, I heard rumours. I can’t say they interested me very much.’
Gerry leaned forward. ‘Tamara, we think — in fact, we know — that Mr. Blaydon used a lot of girls from Eastern Europe, probably supplied by sex traffickers. His parties were also well known for their cocaine use. Did you ever meet a friend of his called Leka Gashi?’
Tamara shook her head. ‘I’m not saying he was never in the office. People came and went. But I was never introduced to anyone by that name.’
‘Petar Tadić?’
‘No.’
‘We also know that Mr. Blaydon used, or allowed to be used, a number of his properties as pop-up brothels. Did you know that?’
‘Pop-up brothels! God forbid. Of course not. Like I said, I had nothing to do with renting out properties or anything like that. I worked for Mrs. Westlake organising travel, accommodation, dinners, meetings, events, and that sort of thing. That was all.’
‘I understand you sent out the party invitations.’
‘Well, I sent out texts and emails sometimes, yes. Made phone calls.’
‘Were you working on 13 April this year?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Do you remember sending out invitations to a party for that date?’
‘They would have been sent out about two weeks earlier. That would make it the end of March, or thereabouts. I can’t remember the exact date. I mean, it was a pretty menial task, to be honest, and it usually didn’t take very long. I just got it done and out of the way as soon as possible. Sometimes it was fun seeing a name I recognised, like a pop star or footballer, but that’s all. It was pretty boring otherwise.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Gerry. ‘Do you remember any names from that specific party?’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ said Tamara. ‘Maybe that means there weren’t any I recognised. Nobody really famous.’
‘Would you try and write down any names you do remember?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘For any other parties that you can think of, too.’
‘All right.’
Gerry fished out the digital image of the rape victim and passed it to Tamara. ‘Do you recognise this girl?’
Tamara held the photo and studied it from different angles. ‘Do you know, I... She looks very upset and dishevelled here, very different, but maybe...’
‘Maybe what?’
Tamara handed the photo back. ‘I think maybe I saw her in the office once.’