Carnal Acts (23 page)

‘What do you reckon?’ Heck asked, as he drove them back to Corham in the late afternoon.

‘It’s a bit hard to be sure without the head.’

‘Aye, but that Kylie fella said Gary Frizzell had both his knees operated on three years ago.’

Joni nodded. ‘Did them in playing football in the local leagues. You were right, sir. The problem is, we’re no further on about what Frizzell, assuming it’s him, was doing getting into a Bentley.’

‘Lee said he’d interviewed the witness, a car mechanic, but he’d been stoned and pissed and couldn’t remember the number.’

‘Yes, but there can’t be that many Bentleys of that model around here.’

‘More than you might think, but I’m sure Lee will track them down.’ He glanced at her. ‘He’s a decent cop.’

‘But an indecent human being?’

‘Something like that.’

Joni watched as the buildings thinned out and the dual carriageway moved through the countryside. She felt a wave of relief. A few months in Corham had turned her into a bumpkin.

‘I don’t see why the Albanian who cut Hot Rod Miller’s throat hasn’t been arrested. So what that Lennox is his brief?’

‘I’d guess Lee’s playing a long game with the Albanians. His people will be keeping an eye on the Stars and Bars.’

Joni pulled down the sunshade. ‘Do you think Frizzell was a dope dealer? The Albanians are into drugs, according to my ex-colleague down south. Maybe he crossed them and they took the kind of revenge that the Popi specialise in.’

‘Maybe, but we’ll have to leave Lee to sweat that out of the guys he’s got in custody.’

‘Smart move by the Albanians, wasn’t it?’

‘You mean not resorting to violence when the idiots went back? Aye, but it blows a hole in your idea about them being hyper-violent. Besides, what kind of an example is it when no one knows who he is?’

‘Dr Volpert will confirm his identity from the notes on his knee surgery. It was laparoscopy, so the surgeon who did it can check his work.’

Heck nodded, taking the exit near the paper factory on the outskirts of Corham.

Joni’s phone rang. It was Pete Rokeby. She listened, asked some questions and then hung up.

‘What was that about?’

‘No sign of Suzana on the moors, but the search team found an abandoned quad bike by one of the wind turbines. Pete ran the number. It’s registered to an—’

‘Oliver Forrest.’

‘How do you know that?’

Heck tapped his nose. ‘Hunch, instinct, call it what you will. I’ve got it in … nay, not really. I was at school with him. His
father had the biggest sheep farm on the moors when I was a kid. Must have spent dozens of weekends up there. Ollie took it over when the old bugger died a while back.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Up there. I should have been on that team myself. I know the moors better than anyone in it.’

Joni remembered what Ag had asked her to do, but kept silent. The truth was, she liked it when Heck was in the field.

Oliver Forrest woke up, his head splitting. He couldn’t see and he panicked, realising he was tied down by his wrists and ankles. Or cuffed, more like. He felt the metal against his skin. He shouted at the top of his voice, the sound echoing round an enclosed space. No one came. There was no sound apart from his ragged breathing. He inhaled deeply and picked up the smell of damp cut with something sweeter. Was it blood? No, more like perfume. How could that be? What had happened?

Forrest concentrated, blocking out the pain from his bone-dry throat. He thought back to the afternoon – was it the same day? He had topped the rise on the quad bike and stopped, standing up to scan the horizon. To the west the wind turbines strode away along the ridge. The surrounding landowners had got huge grants to erect the metal monsters and more were going up on the northern ridge. The great blades stood above the trees like medieval torture wheels; he remembered them from school history. To the east, his own land sloped away, the sheep in batches near the forest’s edge, far from the remains of their fellow creature. Yes, that was it. He’d found one of his ewes butchered. The crows had made a mess of her, but he could see that some fucker had skinned the animal skilfully and hacked off the best of the meat. Yon was definitely a deid ’un.

So where was the butcher? He could be anywhere by now – the animal was stiff. The ground was very uneven. Streams cut through the heather and ancient rock faces broke up the grassland. Probably long gone. Ollie had sat down with a snort. Then his phone rang.

‘Mr Forrest? My name’s Detective Sergeant Peter Rokeby.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘I’m leading a search party on your land.’

‘Search for what?’

‘Maybe you’ve seen it in the news. Young Albanian woman killed one of her countrymen and injured another two?’

Ollie had seen that, but he played dumb. ‘And you reckon this lass is on the moor?’

‘We do. If you see her, don’t approach her. She’s armed and dangerous.’

‘Right you are. I’ll probably see you up here at some point.’

‘Did you not see us yesterday afternoon, sir? I called at your house.’

‘Nay, lad. The wife’s car was in for service so I had to pick her and the lad up in Corham.’ He cut the connection.

So, he thought, one of the tarts from the Burwell Street knocking shop was on the loose. He’d have to be quick if the coppers were already on the moor. He’d never had her – he stuck to the same tart, an older one who didn’t care what he did. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have the young one now, knives or no knives. And if she’d slaughtered his beast, she was fair game.

He stood up on the bike again. Was that a black spot near the wind turbines to the west? His eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been. Maybe his mother had been right about too much wanking. Yes, it was moving. Must be her. With a raging fire in his belly, Ollie gunned the engine and roared off. The other woman only knew a few words of English, most of them to do with shagging. He didn’t care. He’d never been one for conversation with members of the fair sex, the wife included.

And he’d got her, he remembered, he was on top of her, pulling her clothes apart. Then he fell into a very dark pit.

Yelling again and pulling against his bonds, Ollie Forrest realised his roving eye had finally landed him in a sea of shit.

Joni and Heck met Pete Rokeby by the wind turbines. It was early evening and the big Jeep bounced hard over the track from the farm. They had stopped there and Heck spoke to Ollie Forrest’s wife, Lizzie. She hadn’t seen him since early morning, when she had left for Corham with their son Jack. She’d spent the rest of the day in the bookshop where she worked.

‘I wouldn’t worry, Heck,’ she said. ‘You know what he’s like. He’ll be stalking rabbits.’

‘It isn’t safe,’ Heck said seriously. ‘There’s a woman who has already killed on the loose. Make sure all your windows are closed and lock the doors. I’ll leave an officer outside till we find him.’

They reached the truck on which the quad bike had been loaded, under supervision of a SOCO.

‘Pancake,’ Heck said, getting out. ‘No sign of her?’

Rokeby shook his head. ‘Not enough light for us to work by now.’

‘Did that helicopter ever show up?’

‘No, sir. There were other priorities.’

‘I bet.’

Joni was walking around the areas marked by the SOCOs. ‘Any prints or tracks?’

Heck groaned as a large red Japanese 4×4 pulled up. ‘Here we go,’ he said, under his breath. He watched as the hefty figure of Viscount Andrew Favon climbed down and walked towards him. He was in classic country squire attire – green shooting jacket, matching trousers and wellies. He also sported a large leather hat that reminded him of the one the missing Albanian
girl had taken from Alice Liphook’s shed, except this one was black and bore the family crest – a quartered shield supported by two fish-tailed men. Heck suspected Favon wore it to cover his bald crown. The unruly moustache compensated for it.

‘That you, Rutherford?’

‘In the flesh, Lord Favon.’ Heck extended a hand. It was shaken briefly by a soft-fleshed and larger one.

‘You look a bit seedy. Heard you were injured in the line of duty. Should you be back at work?’

‘I’m all right.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ The viscount watched the SOCOs’ van drive away.

‘We’re looking for an Albanian woman, a murder suspect.’

‘I saw something about that on the news. You think she’s up here?’

Heck nodded. ‘We followed her through the plantation on the far side of the moor yesterday. It looks like she killed one of Oliver Forrest’s sheep overnight.’

‘Good God. So she’s armed.’

‘With knives. Were any of your people up here today? Ollie Forrest’s quad bike was found abandoned here.’

Favon frowned. His eyebrows were long and sprouting. ‘Forrest was probably drunk. How do you know he didn’t fall over and damage himself on that ridiculous contraption?’

‘Maybe the woman was here too, my lord.’ Heck had learned the hard way how to address the landowner when he’d investigated a burglary at Favon Hall a few years back. ‘We’re taking the bike in. It’s evidence.’

‘I see. The fool. I’ve told him often enough to stick to his own part of the moor.’ The aristocrat shook his head. ‘Bloody man. Put in an objection to the wind turbines.’ He smiled, showing yellow teeth. ‘Not that it got him anywhere.’

Heck tried his luck. ‘I’d like to search your grounds and check the estate vehicles.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘The Albanian woman might be in hiding down there.’

Favon laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know how steep those cliffs are.’

‘It’s for your own safety.’

‘I can look after my wife, daughter and myself, thank you.’

Heck considered telling him how handy Suzana was with a knife, but the pompous fool had refused him access so he wasn’t going to play the Good Samaritan.

‘We’ll get off your land. You’ll let me know straightaway if the Albanian woman is seen, won’t you?’ He handed over his card.

Favon stuck it in his pocket without looking at it. ‘Or I’ll ring your boss. Remarkable woman, Ruth Dickie. The next chief constable, I’m sure of it.’

Heck turned away with his head down – not in deference to the viscount, but because he was puzzled. Their conversation had been strange, even by the standards of that brusque
blue-blooded
creature. The problem was, he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him.

 ‘Where can Nick be?’ Rosie Etherington was twisting a dish towel in her hands. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock. Why isn’t his phone working?’

Her father-in-law tried to disguise his unease. ‘Don’t worry. He’ll be back any minute. You know how enthusiastic he gets on his bike rides. He knows every bump in the road, even at night and with those inadequate lights. As for his mobile, he turns it off when he’s in the saddle. Says he doesn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘What if he’s had a puncture?’

‘He’ll turn his phone back on and call us.’

‘Please, Michael, go out and look for—’

Then the house phone rang. Rosie moved towards it and then stopped, waving for him to answer.

Michael took the receiver from the wall and identified himself. After listening for a time, he felt the strength go from his legs and squatted down, his back against the wall.

‘Are you … are you sure?’ he asked, then listened again, avoiding Rosie’s desperate eyes. ‘I see. All right, I’ll be over immediately.’ With difficulty he raised himself to a standing position and put the phone back.

‘What’s happened?’ His daughter-in-law’s voice was almost a scream. ‘Tell me, Michael!’

‘The … the police…’ He stepped over, legs like jelly, and drew Rosie close. ‘There’s been … there’s been … an accident.’

Rosie was already crying. ‘My baby, my boy … what’s happened to him?’

‘It seems … it seems he went off the road.’

‘But he’s … he’s all right, my Nick, isn’t he? Isn’t he?’

The major general tried to extricate himself from her clutch. ‘They want me there, Rosie. I have to go.’

‘I’m coming with you.’ She was holding on to the arms of his sweater. ‘I’m coming, Michael, you can’t stop me.’ There was fire in her eyes, despite their dampness. ‘It’s Nick. He’s all I’ve got left.’

He looked at her, his heart clattering, and nodded. The police would know what to do, they had experience with devastated parents. What he’d been through as a raw subaltern and later in senior command seemed useless now – a different life from this one.

‘Come on, then,’ he said, taking her to the Jaguar with his arm around her thin shoulders. It was still warm outside. There had been many such evenings in Bosnia and Kosovo. The mountains there were swarming with armed men, but it seemed those great peaks were no more dangerous than the gentle hills where he had grown up.

‘Where is he?’ Rosie demanded, her voice firmer. Michael had
seen this with soldiers. They became calmer and more confident before they saw what had happened to their comrades close up.

‘Near the bottom of High Edge, this side.’

He drove on to the road and went past the houses at 30 mph, discipline still in place. As soon as they were out of the village, he upped his speed, the car taking the corners smoothly. Neither of them spoke, but the tension was wound tighter than the armature of a generator. It increased when they saw the lights ahead. The police had cordoned off the nearside of the road.

Michael pulled up behind a police van. Before he could react, Rosie opened her door and dashed forward, evading a burly uniformed constable and ducking under the blue-and-white tape.

‘Nick!’ she screamed. ‘Where are you, Nick?’

Michael went after her but she was a woman possessed, feinting to slip past a thin man in a suit he vaguely recognised and heading for an area lit by arc lamps. A second before he reached Rosie, the black woman detective came out of the trees in pale blue overalls and bootees. She clamped her arms around his daughter-in-law.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Etherington,’ she said, ‘you can’t go down there.’

‘Nick!’ Rosie screamed. ‘I’m here, Nick!’

Joni Pax held the distraught woman, looking past her to Michael. Rosie started screaming.

‘Major General Etherington?’

He looked to his side and took in the haggard suited man.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Hector Rutherford,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘We met at one of the rugby club balls.’

‘Heck Rutherford, of course.’ Michael took his hand. ‘You were a hell of a number eight.’ He looked to the front again. ‘What happened here? The officer on the phone said my grandson had been badly injured.’

‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that. It’s a pity his mother came out.’

Michael felt his hands tremble. ‘I couldn’t stop her. You mean … you mean that Nick’s …’

Heck nodded. ‘There can’t be much doubt it’s his body. There are name tags on his socks. Normally we would have waited for a formal identification – we still will if you prefer – but I thought you’d want to be involved from the beginning.’

‘I … I appreciate that. But we’ll have to do something about Rosie.’

‘I have another female officer here. She can take her home.’

‘She’ll have her work cut out.’

‘She knows what she’s doing.’ Heck signalled to a soft-faced woman and introduced DC Andrews to the major general. ‘I need you to look after Mrs Etherington, Eileen. Take her home and keep an eye on her, all right?’

If Andrews resented being reduced to family support duty, she didn’t show it. She went over to Rosie and gently prised her from Joni’s embrace, speaking to her in a calm, low voice. When she had got her into a squad car, Joni came over, pulling off her latex gloves.

‘What did you tell her?’ Michael demanded.

‘That Nick was killed in an accident.’ She glanced at Heck. ‘But that isn’t the case.’

‘What?’ The major general’s voice was faint.

‘Force HQ received an anonymous phone call,’ Heck said. ‘A male voice, giving us the exact location and saying that a large black 4×4 had knocked your grandson off the road.’

‘Have you found this black car?’

‘We’re doing what we can.’ Heck dropped his gaze. ‘But there’s more.’

‘Oh, Christ.’

‘The officers who arrived first immediately realised they weren’t dealing with a traffic accident or even a hit and run.’

‘I want to see him,’ Michael said firmly. ‘Now.’

Heck and Joni exchanged glances. It would be useful to have a positive identification at this early stage. The injuries were such that they couldn’t be sure, even though there was an Abbey School photo ID card in the victim’s backpack.

‘All right,’ Heck said. ‘You’ll need to get suited up. It’s a steep slope, but you look to be in good shape.’ He gave a slack smile that wasn’t returned. ‘DI Pax will take you down. And Michael?’ He hoped the use of the major general’s first name wouldn’t offend. ‘Prepare yourself. It isn’t pretty.’

Etherington nodded and followed Joni to the SOCOs’ van. When he was kitted out and she had put on another pair of gloves, she led him to the side of the road. A rope had been tied to the tow bar of a Traffic Division Volvo. About three metres to the left, markers had been placed around a narrow tyre track on the verge.

‘I imagine you’ve done this kind of thing before,’ Joni said.

Michael nodded.

‘Wait till I give you a shout.’

He watched as she stepped backwards down the surprisingly steep incline, moving her hands rapidly. The leaves and branches of the surrounding trees were lit up, as was a crumpled form in Lycra at the bottom. Michael took a deep breath and slithered down, the bootees giving him little traction. When he reached the end of the rope, he found himself held up by Joni’s hands on his arms.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ he said, stepping past her. ‘He’s … he’s had his head smashed in,’ Michael’s throat was drier than it had ever been. ‘Who … who could have done this?’

Joni raised her hands. ‘Slow down, sir. Please don’t step near the markers. To start with, is this your grandson’s bicycle?’

Michael bent over the twisted frame and nodded. ‘That’s his helmet too,’ he said, pointing to the seemingly undamaged object in a bush to the right. He moved closer to the body. Nick was lying on his back with his arms and legs splayed. His face and head were a mass of red and grey.

‘Sweet Jesus.’ Michael Etherington squatted as close as he could get to his grandson. Such was the damage to his features that he couldn’t be sure it was Nick. ‘Can I open his top?’

‘The doctor will do that,’ Joni said, watching as a thickset
woman in white coveralls picked her way past the markers and pulled down the zip from neck to lower abdomen.

‘That’s far enough,’ the major general snapped. He extended his index finger. ‘It’s Nick all right. See those scars on his chest? He got raked on his debut for the first fifteen.’ His eyes filled with tears. ‘He should have gone to hospital, but he insisted on being patched up and sent back on. He scored a try and won the match for the school.’ He took a deep breath. ‘He was only fourteen.’ He started to sob and stood up, pushing Joni away when she went to him. Then he dragged a sleeve across his face and there was a rapid transformation.

‘Detective Inspector Pax, I confirm this is the body of my grandson Nicholas Michael Etherington. Do I have to sign something?’

Joni shook her head. ‘We’ll do the paperwork later, sir.’

Michael grabbed her arm and took her back from the corpse.

‘Let go, sir,’ she said, in a firm voice.

He stared at her and registered what he was doing. ‘Sorry. Look, what the hell happened here? Why would someone do that to him?’

‘It’s too early to say,’ Joni said, blocking out the pain in her arm.

‘Who was it you thought he saw at the Albanian brothel? Is there a connection?’

It seemed likely there was, but Joni didn’t intend to speculate now. ‘I’ve no idea who your grandson might have seen. I only know he was lying.’ She caught his eye. ‘Do you know? Can you cast any light on why this might have happened?’

‘Me?’ The major general frowned. ‘What would I know?’

‘You live in the same house.’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, DI Pax. He’s … he
was
a healthy eighteen-year-old. He took his schoolwork seriously, hoped to get to Cambridge—’

‘Yes, he told me.’

Michael stared at her. ‘Really? When? Oh, during your
interrogation.’ He clenched his fists. ‘You’d better be sure everything was done right because my lawyer’s going to be combing through the paperwork.’

Joni didn’t respond to the grief-stricken man’s provocation. ‘Did he have a girlfriend?’

‘What, now you think one of his school friends did this?’ Then his expression changed.

‘What is it, sir?’ Joni asked, immediately aware that something had struck him.

‘Oh, nothing. Look, can we do this tomorrow? I have to get back to Rosie.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Michael Etherington looked around. ‘What about his phone? Have you found it?’

‘Not yet. He had it with him?’

‘Never even went to the bog without it, though he turned it off when he was on his bike.’ He took out his own and pressed a speed-dial button. There was no sound in the vicinity. ‘The bastard who did this must have taken it with him.’

Joni stepped closer. ‘Any reason why you think the killer is male?’

The major general’s eyes opened wider than they might have. ‘You think a woman could do that?’ He glanced at Nick’s body, then bowed his head.

Joni didn’t answer. If pressed, she’d have said she doubted it, but she’d investigated domestic abuse cases where women had done equally terrible things to their abusive men. She suspected a female was involved in some way in the boy’s death and that Michael Etherington thought so too; she’d noticed how he brushed off his question about Nick having a girlfriend. The trick would be to find out who she was – and get to her before the ex-soldier did.