Carnal Acts (21 page)

Back home, Joni called Roland Malpas on her mobile. This time her former Met colleague answered immediately.

‘Guess who, Ro.’

‘Pam! I’ve been a fan for ages. I loved you in
Coffey
, but
Foxy
Brown
was the killer for me.’

Joni let him have his fun. The bits she’d seen of the Pam Grier blaxploitation movies had left her cold because of their casual violence.

‘They call me Jackie up here,’ she said. ‘Tarantino’s film is even more patronising if you ask me, but that’s not why I called.’

‘No, I guessed not. Just out of interest, what is your favourite movie?’ Ro was exacting as much as he could from the situation – she could imagine him telling the rest of the homicide squad what she said. She could only hope he had something about the Popi for her.

‘I’m not really a big film watcher,’ she said. ‘Maybe
The Leopard
?’

‘What? I don’t know that one.’

Una vera sorpresa
, she thought. If Roland Malpas had sat through Visconti’s three-hour version of di Lampedusa’s great novel, she’d have eaten the hat that Suzana left behind in the wood.

‘The Popi, Ro,’ she prompted.

‘Ah, right. I’ve asked around. Looks like you’ve got trouble.’ He couldn’t completely disguise his satisfaction. Joni knew that, deep down, he was resentful she had put her life on the line for him. ‘The Popi aren’t just any old Albanian gang.’

‘Clan,’ she put in, deciding to pick him up on anything she could.

‘Yeah, I mean clan. The family that stays together et cetera’

‘Get on with it, Ro. We have homicides up here too, you know. Clock ticking…’

There was a pause as he took in her tone. ‘Of course. Anyway, the Popi seems to be a clan within the clans. They’re mainly
connected with a family called Spahia.’ He spelled the name out. ‘They’ve made it big in Italy and even in the States. They’re into drugs, people trafficking, porn, smuggling, armed robbery, hostage taking – anything you like, really. A few of them have been caught, but no one important. In recent years, the Spahia have moved into the UK. They’re based in London, but it seems they’re setting up shop in the major provincial cities.’

‘The Spahia?’ Joni checked the spelling. ‘So what about the Popi?’

‘Ah, that’s where it gets interesting. As in, “May you live in interesting times”.’ Roland Malpas waited for her to respond, but she let the Chinese cliché go. ‘Er, the Popi are like the SAS of the Albanian clans. They get sent in when the ordinary guys – who aren’t exactly shrinking violets – need support. The thing with them is they leave no trace.’

‘What do you mean? SOCOs can always pick up something at a scene.’

‘Yeah, but they never leave anything that leads to them. You know how they do that? By killing everyone present, usually as messily as possible. Remember those dope dealers who got taken out in Epping Forest a year back?’

The case had caused a lot of talk, even though Homicide South-west wasn’t involved. Four Essex wide boys had muscled in somewhere they shouldn’t. They were found with their intestines wound round each other’s necks.

‘That was the Popi?’

‘So the rumour mill says. As you can imagine, there isn’t much to go on and people – even ours – don’t discuss them willingly.’

Joni sat back, one hand on her scars. ‘Thanks, Ro.’

‘Before you rush off, one more thing. Another way the Popi leave no trace is that they hire outside killers to do their dirty work. Not necessary Albanians.’

Joni thought about that. ‘Interesting. Thanks again.’

‘That’s OK. But we’re even, right?’ He rang off – proving that ‘goodbye’ had gone missing in action down south as well.

Joni spent half an hour preparing and eating a bean salad, then sat down with her laptop. Several Italian criminology journals she subscribed to stood between her and sleep. It was as she finished taking notes on the last one that she found herself querying Malpas’s motives for passing on the information. Joni had called him, but she had a feeling Ro would have been in touch himself. Although he hadn’t disguised his dislike for Joni, he’d still come up with the goods. Why? As a last gesture of support for a former colleague? Unlikely. To scare her? That had the undeniable ring of truth.

Joni smiled and, ten minutes later, was in bed. Roland Malpas didn’t frighten her. Her default mode was to respond well to challenges. Sleep came almost immediately.

Moonbeam Pax didn’t usually watch the television, not least because her set was old and the signal in the foothills was poor. That evening she had been making an offering to the Great Mother and channelling all her positive energy into it had exhausted her. She turned on the late news and slumped in her single, cat-shredded armchair.

‘…search for the killer of the unnamed male victim found in the River Coquet has started. The body was found this morning by Brian Sweeney, who was walking his dog.’ The screen showed a man whiter than the most starched sheet. ‘Unconfirmed reports say that the victim’s head and hands had been removed.’

Moonbeam sat up straight. The decapitation of enemies and display of human skulls had been prevalent in Celtic times and still played a large part in certain forms of magic. Not hers, of course. She looked around the cottage’s main room. On the walls she had a crocodile skull that a friend had brought back from Egypt – it had been blessed by a wise woman who followed the
old religion there – and one of a small monkey. She used them in spells. It had never occurred to her to seek out a man’s skull, though there was a certain temptation to do so. Human heads had great power. She wondered if there was a way she could get her hands on the one that had been taken from the man in the river. The idea that it may have been cleansed in running water made it even more enticing.

Then she tuned into the news again.

‘…that the head and hands may have been used to prevent the victim’s identity being discovered, as criminal gangs have been known to do.’

Moonbeam sat back as another, much more run-of-the-mill story was reported. A human head. Hands too – they had numerous ritual uses, especially if the dead man had used them in significant ways.

No, she told herself, getting up and going into the kitchen. The liquid in the pot was covered in a grey-pink scum now and she scooped it away. The skeleton of the salmon was almost clean of meat. The next day she would bury it in the garden, consigning the remains of the lithe creature to the earth mother. No, it was too risky. The man she’d got the fish from could obtain anything, or so he said. He’d never let her down and the steel in his eyes suggested he was capable of anything.

Moonbeam concentrated on lifting the flesh on to a plate with a strain. The man she’d attracted would love it. Joni had no idea, but her mother could cook very well when she had to. Joni. She’d be involved in the headless man case, though she hadn’t appeared on TV. A tremor ran through Moonbeam’s body. Yes, she thought. Everything is coming together. I’ve finally found a compliant man in the right place. Joni will come to understand the power of nature and its manifestation in her. And the rich, thieves and destroyers of their fellow human beings, will see their stratagems come to naught…

The morning briefing: Heck, feeling much better, started with the search for Suzana Noli. He ran through the events of the previous day, underplaying his own part in them.

‘Great tackle, sir,’ Pete Rokeby said, grinning at the double entendre.

Even Mrs Normal laughed – for a couple of seconds.

‘Anyway,’ Heck said, when the noise died down, ‘the fork wound to the head and comparison of the photo in the passport from the brothel safe confirm that the biker is Elez Zymberi, the third Albanian attacked by the missing girl at the house in Burwell Street. He kept his mouth shut till Lennox’s legal eagle turned up – DI Pax tried him in Italian – and, surprise, surprise, afterwards. None of the three Albanians has any form on HOLMES or the other databases.’

‘We’ve got this Zymberi for illegal possession of the hand gun and ammunition clips,’ Roger Underwood piped up. The Crime Prosecution Service lawyer was wearing a flash pinstriped suit. ‘There won’t be any problem getting him remanded.’

‘What about the motorbike?’ Heck asked.

DC Andrews raised a hand. ‘The engine number and other identifying marks square with one stolen in Cornwall.’

‘So we can do him for that too,’ Heck said.

Underwood nodded.

‘None of which gets us very far since he isn’t talking,’ the ACC said. ‘Let’s move on.’

Heck looked at his notes. ‘Wayne Garston, the ganger. Where are we with him?’

‘He was released yesterday evening,’ Pete Rokeby said, giving Ruth Dickie an unimpressed look. ‘Got a slap on the wrists for running from us.’

‘He thinks we’ve lost interest in him,’ the ACC said. ‘When we go back, he’ll be vulnerable.’

Heck nodded, resisting the temptation to say ‘Good
thinking’ to his boss. ‘Are Garston’s workers legit?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Pete said. ‘EU nationals. The Border Agency cleared them.’

The briefing continued with tasks being allocated, but there was a definite air of sluggishness. The investigations were stalling and everyone knew it.

Heck and Joni attended the autopsy of the man without head and hands in the mortuary at Corham General. Unlike the old days when detectives had to wear surgical garb and stand in close proximity to the deceased, they were now able to observe from behind the glass screen in the viewing gallery. Dr Volpert’s voice was coming through speakers in the ceiling.

‘…of approximately thirty years … head and hands severed by a well-honed, single, serrated blade … genitalia normal … height estimated at six feet and one inch … weight twelve stone … both knees show small healed incisions from what appears to be laparoscopic surgery … both feet display recent contusions, both big toes bent inwards, indicative of tight shoes…’

‘He’s a sportsman,’ Heck said to Joni. ‘Skinny to be a rugby player and Big Bertha hasn’t said anything about marks elsewhere on his body, which you’d expect. Footballer’s my guess.’

Joni shrugged, out of her depth with contact sports.

‘At that height he was probably a centre back. Not a pro or a high profile amateur because we’d have heard he’d gone missing. Probably a Sunday player. He’s got a bit of a gut on him.’

Dr Volpert’s voice droned on as she performed the Y-incision and removed the victim’s internal organs. Her minions moved around quickly, collecting and weighing what she held up. The diminutive pathologist had a reputation for savaging fools and insubordinate inferiors. Joni watched impassively, while Heck shifted from foot to foot. He never used to be bothered by the insides of dead folk, but since his operation he’d become squeamish. That would teach him. He thought tackling the Albanian yesterday had dealt with his fear of going one on one and it had, but a sense of his own mortality was strong in Big Bertha’s realm.

His phone rang.

‘Heck, this is Lee Young.’

‘Aye, aye, what’s up?’

‘I think I might have found out who your headless guy is.’

Heck took a deep breath. Being in his former colleague’s debt was not a pleasant prospect. Still, if it got the job done…

‘So?’

‘You’d better come over to the MCU here. It’s complicated and guess what?’

Heck had a bad feeling about where this was going.

‘The Albanians are involved.’

‘That’s interesting. Have you nailed them?’

‘That’s the complication. Come on over.’

Heck stared at his phone when the connection was broken. Lee Young had always been one for power games and now he had Heck at a disadvantage. But he could hardly not go over to the building he’d worked in for years.

‘Fancy a trip to the big city?’

‘What, London?’

He gave her a glare. ‘No, Newcastle.’

‘No.’

‘Well, you’re coming anyway.’

‘OK, but I want to talk to the ganger first. Pete can come with me on his way up to the moors.

‘All right, but be quick about it.’

‘Later on I’ll tell you what I found out about the Popi.’

‘Good?’

‘Very much not.’

Michael Etherington was worried about his grandson. Given that he had A-levels in a month, he was too bloody happy, though less so this morning. It was obviously because of Evie Favon. He couldn’t fault Nick’s taste. Evie was a delight and she had guts. Coming back from multiple leg fractures wasn’t child’s play and she’d started walking before the doctors had expected. She was smart too.

When he’d run Nick to school, his grandson talked about Saturday’s cricket match. It was the last he was going to play for the Abbey and he needed to score over fifty to keep his three-year average in the sixties. It was a needle match with Moorden and they had a pair of handy fast bowlers.

‘Can you take me up to Favon Hall again this afternoon, Gramps?’

Michael glanced at him. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? How much work are you getting done there?’

‘Plenty. Evie’s a big help.’

‘Yes, but you’ve only got English in common. What about your other subjects?’

‘I’ve got them covered, don’t worry.’

‘All right. I trust you, lad.’

‘Thanks.’ Nick looked out of the side window for a while. ‘Lord Favon, is he right in the head?’

‘What’s Andrew done now?’

‘I’m … I’m not sure.’

Michael took the road into Corham. ‘He’s not the brightest star in the galaxy, if that’s what you mean.’ He glanced at his grandson. ‘What is it?’

‘I … oh, it doesn’t matter.’

‘If you’re sure. We can talk about it later.’

‘So you will take me?’ Nick said, grabbing his bag. ‘Great.’

Michael watched as he got out of the car and was immediately surrounded by admiring schoolmates, male and female. God, he envied him.

‘Do you think they’ll still be working in that field?’ Joni asked Pete Rokeby, as she turned off the main road.

‘Maybe. At this time of year they only take the shoots off the kale. Apparently they’re used in expensive restaurants.’ He looked at his superior. ‘That Garston’s a spineless slob. If he was the one that alerted the Albanian headbanger, he’ll clam up tighter than a—’

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plans for him. Just play along.’

Rokeby raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s the lorry.’

Joni stopped the Land Rover behind the stationary vehicle and they got out.

Wayne Garston was leaning against a gatepost. He didn’t look happy to see them. ‘Er, morning, officers. Is there a problem?’

‘No, sir,’ Joni said cheerfully. ‘We have a few more questions. Would you step into the Land Rover?’

‘I can’t leave my—’

‘Slaves?’ Joni said. ‘You didn’t have any problem doing that the other day.’

‘All right, but not for long.’ Garston yelled at one of the men bent double, telling him to keep everyone hard at it.

When he was in the back seat, Joni started the engine, reversed and drove past the lorry.

‘Where are we going?’ Garston asked, in alarm.

‘We need some privacy, Wayne,’ Joni said. ‘I’m taking you back to the scene of the crime. I mean, where a skinny Albanian girl reduced one of their hard men to a squealing ponce.’ She glanced at Pete, who remained impassive.

‘Right, out,’ she said, after she stopped where the lorry and motorbike had been parked the other day. She grabbed Garston’s arm and led him to the fence on the left side of the road. ‘And over.’

Pete stepped up, giving the fat man a heave over the wire. They followed, walking him to the stand of trees where stones were heaped.

‘Take a seat,’ Joni said, motioning Garston to the nearest pile. She picked up a stone that fitted her palm and tossed it from one hand to the other.

‘What … what is this?’ the ganger said, looking at them anxiously.

‘Your mobile phone,’ Joni said. ‘Now!’

He started fumbling in the pocket of his filthy overalls. ‘You can’t—’ The stone cracked as it impacted with another, a few inches below his groin. He handed the phone over.

Joni gave it to Pete. ‘Open the contacts folder. Right, Mr Garston, you’re going to tell us who all these people are. If I get the slightest hint that you’re bullshitting, we’ll call the number and tell them you’re cooperating with a police inquiry into organised crime.’

‘No!’ Wayne Garston got to his feet, but sat down again heavily when Joni put pressure on his shoulders. ‘You can’t … you can’t do this. I want my lawyer. No!’ The last word came out as a shriek. Joni had picked up another weighty stone.

‘On the other hand, if you answer my questions, we’ll give you your phone back. After DS Rokeby’s finished copying the contacts, of course.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Garston said. ‘These people are killers. I’ve got a wife and kids.’

Joni was tossing the stone from hand to hand. ‘Not if we catch them and put them away. Your kids – what are they? Girls, boys?’

‘Tracey’s fifteen and … and Joey’s twelve.’

Joni moved closer. ‘You know what they do to fifteen-year-old girls, don’t you, Wayne? The seventeen-year-old who escaped from here was probably forced into sucking cocks and taking it up the arse when she was your Tracey’s age. No way they’ll kill her. They’ll work her to death and that’ll take twenty years, maybe more. And they’ll do the same to your Joey – plenty of demand for virgin male arse. As for your wife, yes, they’ll kill her, but they’ll gang rape and mutilate her first.’

The burly ganger was sobbing, one arm over his eyes. Joni felt Pete Rokeby’s eyes on her, but ignored them.

‘I can’t,’ Garston gasped. ‘I—’

This time the stone clipped his upper thigh, making him yelp.

Joni picked up another. ‘Last chance. Tell us which number you rang to get the biker up here.’

The ganger’s eyes were on the stone moving between Joni’s hands. ‘A … alpha.’

‘Very good. Alpha for Albanians?’ She stopped tossing the tone. ‘Have you ever heard of the Spahia clan?’

‘There’s an entry for “sierra”,’ Pete said. ‘Shall I call it?’

‘No!’ Wayne Garston’s eyes were wide. ‘Please. That’s only for emergencies. They … they don’t like me using it.’

‘So you do know the Spahia clan.’

‘I … I know that’s their name.’

‘And how about the Popi?’

Garston shook his head, his eyes blank.

‘The only “p” is for a pizza place,’ Pete said.

‘All right,’ Joni said, taking a step back. ‘That wasn’t so hard.’

The ganger started to get to his feet. ‘Can I go…’

Joni raised her hand and he sat down again quickly. ‘We’re not quite finished. There was a red pickup at the far end of these fields. What do you know about it?’

Wayne Garston’s gaze dropped. ‘Nothing,’ he mumbled.

Joni’s voice was steely. ‘This time your bollocks will be squashed, I guarantee it.’

‘Reston,’ the ganger said. ‘Dan Reston.’

‘There’s a “DR” on here,’ Pete confirmed.

‘Who’s he?’ Joni asked.

‘Mate of mine.’ Garston shrank back. ‘No! All right, all right. He works for Lord Favon.’

Joni kept her expression neutral. ‘And you called him as well as the Albanians when you spotted the girl?’

A brief nod.

‘You’re going to have to explain why.’

Wayne Garston let out a long sigh. ‘All the fields here are part of the Favon estate. When there’s work needing done, Dan Reston lets me know and I sort it.’

‘And what interest would he have had in a runaway Albanian girl?’

‘He … he likes girls … likes doing things to them. I send him the younger ones from the work gangs.’

‘But this one wasn’t from a work gang.’

‘No…’ The fat man caught Joni’s gaze. ‘Look, I felt sorry for her. The Albanians told me to keep an eye out and I read the papers. They’d have cut her to pieces.’

‘So you decided to hand her over to a “mate” who “likes doing things” to young women?’ Joni was standing over him now, spittle flying. ‘What kind of things?’

Garston’s head was low. ‘He … he hurts them … ties them up and … shit, I don’t know the details. He doesn’t kill them. When they come back, they walk in a funny way and there’s blood on their blouses. Sometimes on their jeans too.’

Joni took a couple of deep breaths. ‘As I understand it, you’re in the middle here. You do contract work for Lord Favon and at the same time you answer to the Albanians. Why’s that?’

‘They … they own my company. Bought me out when things were bad a year or so ago. They can pull the plug on me any time.’

‘And they provide you with workers?’

Another brief nod.

‘Mr Garston, we thank you for your cooperation.’ She turned to her colleague. ‘Add my mobile number to his contacts next to the pizza place, please.’ She looked back at the ganger. ‘Every time you hear from the Albanians or Dan Reston, I want you to call me. Agreed? A nod is not acceptable.’

‘Agreed,’ the fat man said sullenly, jerking backwards as the third stone landed a fraction of an inch below his crotch.

‘Take a hike back to your “slaves”,’ Joni said, after Pete had given him his phone. ‘You need to work off all that tension.’

Pete Rokeby waited until they reached the fence. ‘You didn’t exactly follow the manual back there, ma’am.’

Joni stepped over the wire gracefully, then extended a hand to her shorter colleague. ‘Just using my initiative. Don’t tell Mrs Normal.’

‘I won’t. Actually, I was impressed.’

‘Don’t patronise me.’ Joni’s expression softened. ‘Sorry about the homophobic vocabulary.’

Pete laughed. ‘Now I’ve seen what you can do with a stone, I’m not going to make a complaint, formal or informal.’ He got into the Land Rover. ‘What now?’

‘If we weren’t under orders not to bother Viscount Favon, I’d be straight over there to question this Reston creep. As it is, you’re for the moors and I’m off to Newcastle MCU with the DCI.’

‘Are you now? Good luck with that.’

Joni stared at the DS, but he didn’t elaborate.