Banks phoned through to the squad room and talked to Gerry, who assured him that their files on the Blaydon murder investigation contained comprehensive lists of all the properties on his books. Ever since he had become more interested in speculation and property development — projects like the Elmet Centre — rather than mere ownership, Blaydon had let many of the places he already owned go to seed, or had simply rented them out and forgotten about them. Now he was dead, his daughter would inherit them, along with everything else, but she had already indicated that she had no interest in her late father’s businesses and would rather just sell the whole kit and caboodle and go live in St. Kitts and Nevis.
Banks asked Gerry if she could make time to come up with a list of vacant, isolated Blaydon properties within a radius of, say, twenty miles of Windlee Farm, and she said she would.
‘So charlotte Westlake is lying about not knowing the girl?’
‘So it would appear,’ said Gerry. She was sitting at her desk in the squad room of Eastvale Regional HQ the day after talking with Tamara Collins. ‘The interesting question is why.’
‘We both felt there was something she wasn’t telling us,’ Annie said. ‘And this is probably it. She’s more involved than we thought.’
‘It’s not much, though, is it? Mistaken identity. Poor photograph. Easy to explain away. Maybe she genuinely didn’t recognise this Marnie from the photo, especially if she didn’t know her well?’
‘It’s a connection. That’s what’s important. And it tells us she’s a liar. You specifically asked her if it might have been someone who worked for her at the parties, and she had every chance to come up with a possibility or two. Remember, she didn’t study the photo closely. She just rejected it out of hand. Fair enough, it’s not a great photo, but if you’d hired the person depicted in it, there’s a reasonable chance you might recognise her from it, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why should we trust anything she tells us? For all we know she might be in cahoots with Tadić on supplying the girls. Maybe she’s a madam with a ready-made stable.’
Gerry smiled. ‘Hang on a minute... It is still possible that Charlotte was telling the truth and she didn’t recognise Marnie from the picture.’
‘I know. I know,’ said Annie. ‘Maybe I’m exaggerating, making too much of it. But we have to consider that Charlotte Westlake might be lying, out of loyalty to Blaydon, or to cover up some involvement of her own. In exactly what, I don’t know. Remember she said she knew him vaguely before she went to work for him. Maybe he’s the rapist, and Marnie told Charlotte about it, cried on her shoulder? What would Charlotte do about that? At the very least she ought to be able to supply us with the victim’s last name now we can tell her the first one, which is a hell of a lot more than we have right now.’
‘True enough,’ Gerry agreed. ‘But are you also thinking Charlotte might have had something to do with Blaydon’s murder because of what he did to Marnie?’
‘Or Marnie herself,’ she said. ‘But I can’t see either of them going that far. And gutting him...? No. Charlotte’s already told us she was finding Blaydon’s behaviour harder and harder to take. That’s why she left.’
‘If she’s telling us the truth about that.’
‘Fair enough. But Marnie was just another employee. And what about Gashi? Maybe he was the rapist? Maybe he killed Blaydon because he thought he had something on him, or he found out about Roberts filming it? Don’t forget, we’ve always leaned towards the theory that the Albanians killed Blaydon. We just lacked any evidence. Maybe this is it? At least it gives us a clearer motive. Perhaps we should go and have another word with Charlotte, push her a bit harder.’
‘We could have the local force pick her up and bring her in,’ Gerry suggested. ‘Use an interview room. Give her the full treatment. Be more intimidating.’
Annie thought for a moment. ‘Good idea. We’ve got Tamara’s statement that Charlotte met with the girl in her office. That gives us something to confront her with, more ammunition.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Gerry said, sliding off the desk. ‘I’d better get back to work on Blaydon’s empty properties for the super first, see if we can find a suitable property Tadić could be using to keep Zelda prisoner.’
‘It’s as good an idea as any.’
The door opened and the bright light of a heavy-duty work lamp flooded in. Zelda blinked at the onslaught. When her eyes adjusted, she noticed Petar Tadić standing there with a scruffy, thuggish man she didn’t know. She retreated to her corner and pulled up her knees. She could tell from the way Tadić looked at her that he still had no idea who she was, that they had met before, that he had raped her. The light elongated and distorted their shadows on the walls, so they resembled deformed creatures from a horror film. Freaks. Dracula in his cape. Nosferatu.
‘Sit up straight against that wall by the radiator,’ Tadić said.
Zelda didn’t move.
Tadić stepped forward and kicked her on the hip. She cried out.
‘Against the wall.’
Zelda shuffled herself into position.
Tadić turned the light full on her, and his sidekick took a digital camera from his pocket and squatted in front of her.
‘Hold your head up. Don’t smile for the camera,’ Tadić said and grinned.
That was easy to do. The sidekick took several photos of her head and shoulders. ‘Done, boss,’ he said.
‘Give the camera to Foley. He’ll know what to do.’
He picked up the light and they left without another word. Zelda breathed a sigh of relief as she was once again consigned to darkness.
The interview room wasn’t especially designed to scare the shit out of anyone questioned there, nor was it created to inspire a sense of calm and well-being. The walls were either institutional green or dishwater grey, depending on the light, which came in through a tiny high window covered by a grille. The furniture consisted of a metal table bolted to the floor, along with two hard-backed chairs on each side. Against one wall stood another table laden with tape-recording equipment, and high in one corner, the CCTV camera looked down on the proceedings and recorded every twitch and tic. The room’s starkness was symbolic of its purpose: to get down to the bare bones.
The day Charlotte Westlake was led inside, the walls were decidedly pale grey in contrast to the bright sunshine outside, and to Charlotte’s yellow blouse and green skirt. There was no air-conditioning, and the heat rose steadily throughout the interview. At the end, everyone was sweating, not only Charlotte Westlake.
When she was brought in, she first leaned, palms down, on the table and addressed Annie and Gerry: ‘I want it on record that I very much resent this intrusion into my life for no apparent reason.’
‘Sit down, Mrs. Westlake,’ said Annie. ‘The sooner we get started, the sooner we’ll be finished.’
Charlotte sat slowly, the anger still etched into the hard lines of her face. She wore her hair pulled back, fastened in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, and the tightness of her hairline accentuated her high cheekbones and narrow jaw. Her sapphire eyes were blazing with rage. ‘Should I be sending for my solicitor?’
‘Up to you,’ said Annie. ‘As far as we’re concerned, this is what we call an “intelligence interview” and you’re here simply to answer a few questions about a crime. You haven’t been arrested or charged with anything.’