“I have to admit,” Joanna said, “that most of what we’ve got on Blaydon looks like guilt by association so far. But some of his visitors at home, or people he meets in Leeds city bars and restaurants, office towers, or down in London—ones we’ve been able to monitor—are very dodgy indeed. He may well be expanding his so-called business interests. There’s an Albanian living in London called Leka Gashi we know is involved with the Shqiptare, the Albanian Mafia. And he’s in bed with a major drug kingpin, also in London. Taking over, some would say. On the other hand, one thing they say about the Albanian crooks is that they’ll try and get their feet under the table by treaties and cooperation. They prefer to make friends first.”

“And then?”

Joanna drew a finger across her throat. “If that doesn’t work, they’re known to be extremely violent. The problem is, no one will talk, and none of the police agencies involved can get enough evidence to bring Blaydon in. Like I said, he’s always one step ahead. He has men to put frighteners on potential whistle-blowers—or the Albanians do—and people on the inside to steer any dangerous investigations away from him. Occasionally, they’ll net a few small fish, but the big ones keep on swimming ahead.”

Banks thought it all over for a few moments, then said, “OK. So we’ve got a dead boy on the East Side Estate around the same time as Connor Clive Blaydon’s Merc was spotted in the area. Blaydon’s a known gangster with some very nasty local and international drugs connections. What are your thoughts? That the dead youth was working for him, or against him? On the take? Something like that?”

Joanna shrugged. “It’s possible. Drugs make sense as far as the victim is concerned. You mentioned earlier that the boy had a small amount of cocaine in his pocket. County lines, maybe? We know they recruit young kids to run drugs, especially crack and heroin, from urban centers to places like Eastvale. And the East Side Estate is just the sort of place they’d set up a trap house to sell from. Maybe the Albanians are taking over the county lines? This murder sounds like the kind of thing they would do if the boy crossed them or held out on them, or stole. Dump the poor kid’s body in a rubbish bin. Sends a message.”

“Loud and clear.” Banks knew that county lines were the scourge of small-time local dealers, who were being cut out by the new business model. Instead of meeting your local supplier down at the pub and scoring, you had a young lad sent up from the city and installed in a house, taking orders by a dedicated phone set up for that very purpose—a county line. County lines had fast become the Amazon Prime of drug supply, ousting any number of smaller, independent retailers.

“We’ve had men canvassing the estate all day,” Banks went on, “and nobody yet has admitted to ever seeing the lad at all before, never mind on the night he was killed. Of course, we wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were lying, but not all. You said earlier that Blaydon had owned property on the East Side Estate, places he bought from right-to-buy tenants back in Thatcher’s day. Does he still have any?”