Carnal Acts (26 page)

Suzana had woken in the back of a vehicle that was being driven at high speed down a steep slope. She feigned unconsciousness, moving her hand against the pockets of the leather jacket, the movements disguised by the pounding of the car. Her main knives had gone. She could feel the small blue knife that she’d taken from the woman’s hut in her knickers. She’d have to conceal it better at the first opportunity. Everything had been a blur under the great metal columns. The man on the sow had leapt on her, then he had collapsed from a heavy blow. She had lost consciousness too and was aware of a lump on the side of her head, having caught a glimpse of a red vehicle before the blackness took her.

The road had flattened out and the vehicle moved even faster. Keeping her eyelids almost closed, she saw only a large building with many windows. The man at the wheel, a heavy-shouldered pig with a woollen hat pulled over his face, drove round the back and turned off the engine. After he opened the back door, he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out. She couldn’t avoid a squeal of agony and he slapped her on the face, cursing her with words she had often heard. Dogs started barking and she saw two vicious creatures chained up in the back of the pickup. There were trees beyond the gravel-covered road, but she was trying to keep up with her captor by using her feet rather than be hauled along and her eyes filled with involuntary tears. Through the blur, she saw an older building made of large, weathered stones. It was tall and narrow, like the watchtowers that had dotted her country before the communists had brought them down and replaced them with concrete boxes set deep in the
ground. In the mountains the clans rather than the army had used them.

There was a heavy metal door. She waited on the ground as the pig took out a key and opened up. She was dragged inside and thrown against the far wall. The door slammed shut. There was nothing in the place and the only light came through narrow slits in the walls. She saw a steep stone staircase to her left.

The man in the mask, who was wearing dirty jeans and a torn sweater, grabbed her arm and took her to the stairs. She started to walk up, his hands shoving her when she slowed at every corner. She counted four storeys, each with a single door dotted with metal studs. Then he grabbed her shoulder and unlocked the door on the fifth floor. The room was surprisingly large, but it was nearly empty – a bed in one corner, an empty table in the other and a blacked-out window. Another door was ajar, with bolts on the outside. She could see it was a bathroom that extended in a blister from the flat wall. The man nodded and she understood she was to use it. Then he started tearing at her clothes. She fought back, but she was tired and hungry, and, more important, she had to find a way of hiding her only weapon.

It didn’t take Suzana long to realise that the pig didn’t want sex. Once he’d pulled off her jacket and shirt, he ran his hands through the pockets before dropping them to the floor. She raised her arms and he gagged at the stink. That was good. He stepped away and she sat down to take off her shoes and socks. The stench grew worse and he cursed, turning away. That gave her long enough to undo her trousers and slide the plastic-covered knife into herself. Fortunately Leka had not made her shave down there, it didn’t show at all. When she was naked, she stood up. Her nipples hardened in the cold. That was good too, unless the pig preferred men. No, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them as he patted her clothes. When he was finished, he pointed to the toilet and left through the main door, closing and locking it. In the dim light Suzana saw a hatch in the bottom
of the door. She looked around. The walls were white and freshly painted, while the large stones on the floor looked old. She had the distinct feeling that she was not the first prisoner to be held in this place. What had happened to the others?

The stink from her body distracted her. Feeling her way, she was surprised to find that the toilet also contained a small shower cabinet. The water was warm. She scrubbed her entire body with the rough soap that was in a holder until the water went cold. As she was drying herself, she heard a clang. Going to the hatch, she realised that fresh clothes had come through the hatch. There was also a film-wrapped sandwich.

After she’d put on the loose-fitting blue leggings, denim shirt and heavy pullover, she stood by the window in her bare feet, wolfing down the food. There was a space where the black paint had been scratched away. She saw the corner of a lake and hills in the distance. Trees and birds were moving across a feathered sky. To her right was the other building, lower but bigger. There were no people.

Suzana cursed under her breath. She had lost her freedom and her good weapons. The pig didn’t want her, at least until she was clean. She had the feeling he was only a servant, even lower in rank than Leka. She shivered. What if his master knew her countrymen? What if they were on their way to take their revenge on her? She thought about using the small retractable blade on her throat, letting her blood splash over the white walls. Or she could wait and take at least one more of the animals with her. She examined the floor and the surfaces. There was nowhere to hide the knife; besides, she wanted it close at all times.

She could hardly have it closer – in the place where she had been ruined and abused. Shame burned though her, shame and sadness. Her body had been so deadened that she was hardly aware of the knife’s presence. Yes, she told herself, she would fight them to her last breath, slashing at them even after she’d opened her own arteries. That would be a death to be proud of. Beyond it there would be no more abuse, no pain … only peace.

‘Ah, DI Pax. Anything to report?’ Ruth Dickie spoke in a low voice, Michael Etherington having walked ahead of them towards the kitchen.

‘Yes, ma’am. According to Nick’s … the victim’s mother, he recently fell for Evie Favon, daughter of—’

‘Lord Andrew and Lady Victoria.’ The ACC gave one of her tight smiles. ‘I’ve met them several times at functions.’

‘The victim was cycling back from Favon Hall when he met his end.’

‘Interesting. Let’s see if Michael Etherington can cast any more light on the matter.’ Ruth Dickie gave Joni a cool look. ‘You’d better sit in on the interview, but do
not
intervene without permission.’

They went inside and into the kitchen, where the major general was preparing a pot of tea. The ACC asked him if he minded Joni being present and he accepted with a shrug. When Ruth Dickie told him he could ask for a male officer to be present, he laughed emptily.

‘I have no issue with women,’ he said, glancing at Joni. ‘As long as they know what they’re doing.’

‘Please accept my deepest condolences,’ Dickie said.

‘Thank you, Ruth.’ Cups, saucers and teaspoons were laid on the table with precision. ‘You know, neither I nor my daughter-in-law will ever get over this.’ He sat down suddenly.

‘I’m afraid it will be very hard.’ The ACC waited until he raised his head. ‘You’ll appreciate that we need to act as quickly as possible to catch the killer.’

‘I told your colleague everything I know last night,’ Michael said, pouring the tea.

Ruth Dickie glanced at Joni. ‘But you omitted to mention Evie Favon and the fact that your grandson was cycling back from Favon Hall when he was hit.’

Michael looked at them. ‘I’m sorry about that. Shock, I
suppose. And Nick only started his fling with Evie a few days ago.’

The ACC held his gaze. ‘Do you have any reason to suppose the Favons are connected with his death?’

‘What? No, of course not. Why should they be?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps they didn’t approve of Nick. Perhaps he said something to upset them.’

‘Forgive me, Ruth, but that’s ridiculous. You don’t get killed for upsetting people, not that I can imagine Nick having done that. He’s … was very mild-mannered.’ A haunted smile appeared on his lips. ‘Except on the rugby pitch.’

‘How did you feel about this … liaison?’

‘How did I feel? Good luck to the lad. Rosie was worried it was distracting him, but Evie was helping him with his English literature. She’s a fine lass.’

The ACC nodded. ‘I know. I’ve met her. Have you noticed any change in her since her father ran her over?’

‘I couldn’t say. I’m not close to the Favons. We move in some of the same circles, but I wouldn’t say we’re friends.’

‘I see.’ Ruth Dickie paused.

‘What do you mean?’ Michael said, in irritation. ‘I suppose you’ve heard rumours that Victoria and I were involved. Well, the answer’s no. I lost my wife under a year ago. I’m not interested in that tart.’

Joni watched him intently. She was impressed by Mrs
Normal’s
technique. She’d successfully needled a self-assured man into blurting out potentially useful information. Then again, he was emotionally vulnerable. The ACC’s lack of compassion was less of a surprise.

‘What about Nick?’

‘For God’s sake, Ruth, what do you mean?’

‘Was Nick interested in Lady Victoria?’

‘He only had eyes for Evie.’ Michael looked away. ‘Besides, his exams were coming up, as was his last cricket match.’ He paused, breathing deeply. ‘Not that it matters now, but he took both work and sport very seriously.’

‘Really?’ Ruth Dickie managed to sound both sincere and disbelieving, a talent Joni wished she had. ‘DI Pax?’

Surprised to be given the chance, Joni took up the questioning. ‘I gather his school work had been slipping.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘Nick. He said he didn’t think he’d get his Cambridge grades.’

The major general’s expression was impassive. ‘He never told me any such thing.’

Joni wasn’t going to let that opportunity go. ‘Maybe your relationship with your grandson wasn’t as close as you imagine.’

‘That’s preposterous. Nick and I saw each other several times a day. We talked a lot.’

‘But not about his studies.’

Michael Etherington looked from Joni to Ruth Dickie. ‘I can assure you, he told me everything that was troubling him. He was completely fine, even after you lot hauled him over the coals on Sunday night.’

The ACC cut in. ‘General, I’ll be frank with you. I don’t think you’re being frank with us.’

Spots of red appeared on Michael’s cheekbones.

‘Other officers are interviewing Nick’s friends about Sunday night as we speak, so we’ll shortly have more information.’ Ruth Dickie clicked her pen three times, as if that had some significance. ‘We’ll also be talking to the Favons. Surely you don’t want us coming back every time we find out more about your
grandson’s
activities. That would hardly help Mrs Etherington with the grieving process.’

There was a pause. Joni considered how limited her own interviewing technique was, as well as what a bastard Mrs supposedly Normal was.

‘Have you found his mobile?’

‘No. Do you think it will be useful to us?’ Ruth Dickie spoke softly. She was skilful at modulating her tone.

‘Maybe.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us, general?’ the ACC asked.

He remained silent.

Joni decided to try a different angle. ‘Your grandson’s murder couldn’t have any connection to you, could it?’

Michael Etherington’s eyes sprang wide open. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He was outside an Albanian-run brothel, in which three Albanians were injured, one fatally,’ Joni said evenly. She took a breath and went for the jugular. ‘You served in Kosovo, general.’

At first she thought he was going to lean forward and grab her, such was the anger that twisted his features. ACC Dickie stood up and that put a stop to whatever he was about to do.

‘What exactly is the relevance of that observation, DI Pax?’ she asked, her voice marginally above freezing point.

Joni got to her feet too, still holding Michael Etherington’s gaze. ‘I wondered whether the general had antagonised Albanian criminal gangs when he was there. I understand the
majority
of the population of Kosovo is Albanian. Could you have attracted the attention of those notoriously violent clans? Did you command raids on such criminals?’

The colour had gone from his face. ‘It was a very complicated situation, DI Pax. Freedom fighters and criminals are often the same people. However, we were there as peacekeepers, not as gangbusters. I can assure you, what happened to Nick has nothing to do with me.’

Joni and the ACC took their leave shortly afterwards.

‘That was what the Americans call a curve ball, was it not, DI Pax?’ Ruth Dickie said, by her car. ‘Do you seriously think Albanian gangsters are getting at Michael Etherington via his grandson?’

‘Anything’s possible, ma’am. Maybe he’s been involved with them in the bad sense since Kosovo and wants out. You don’t retire from that business.’

‘I’m without your capital city experience of such things. If you think it’s worth investigating, do so.’ She opened the door of her Audi. ‘He was definitely prevaricating earlier.’

Joni nodded. ‘I think he’s going to take action of some kind himself.’

‘I agree.’ The ACC stayed standing and closed the car door. ‘I’ll go back in and give him a last chance to come clean. If he doesn’t, I’ll make clear to him the consequences of taking the law into his own hands.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Oh, and DI Pax? You came perilously close to crossing the line back there.’ Ruth Dickie smiled emptily. ‘Fortunately for you – and me – you stayed on the side of the angels. Just.’

Joni watched her go back to the door, unsure whether she’d been complimented or given a dressing-down. Possibly both. It had turned out that Mrs Normal was about as ordinary as a purple swan.

Morrie Sutton was enjoying this. The ACC was out, Heck Rutherford was out, Jackie Brown Pax was out, so he was in charge. DC Eileen Andrews had come into the MCU with a sheaf of notes from interviews with the dead schoolboy’s friends and was transcribing them, not that she offered him anything more than an ‘Afternoon, sir’. His own people were doing the same, those who weren’t still asking questions. He didn’t know where Nathan Gray was – the bugger wasn’t answering his phone. He did that sometimes. Morrie reckoned he had a woman somewhere, probably married. His DS was a terrible shagger.

Morrie had spent the middle of the day with Nick Etherington’s teachers. It wasn’t the first time he’d been inside the Abbey School and the luxury of the place got to him. The poncey male teachers in their tweed jackets and college ties looked down their noses at him, as if his council estate background hung around him like a bad smell. The women were even worse – flowery
skirts and shoes that were halfway between boringly flat and fuck me over the desk heels. They resented being taken away from their lessons and they didn’t like talking about one of their pupils. The headmaster – a white-haired loon who rumbled about the staffroom like a St Bernard who’d lost his brandy cask – had asked them to cooperate, but that didn’t mean they were going to spill their guts. He’d done the men, while DC Viv Stammers, a middle-aged woman with years of experience in the old Newcastle vice squad, did the females. He’d had a thing with her about a decade ago and it had led to the end of his less than stable marriage. That had been when things had begun to go really wrong for him, but they were looking up now.

The upshot was that Nick Etherington had been the school’s golden boy: a hero on the sports fields, a smartarse at his studies, the kind who supposedly had no enemies – as if rich folk didn’t get jealous. One of the fools, the vicar, had actually come out with the ‘no enemies’ bollocks, to which Morrie had responded that somebody had hated him enough to smash his face in. That didn’t go down well; the truth rarely did. The teachers went all coy when he raised the question of the victim’s extracurricular activities. They were taken aback when he said Nick had been taken in for questioning on May Sunday night, and even more astonished when he mentioned the Burwell Street brothel. He wasn’t buying that. He was certain that at least one of them would have been a customer at some time, though they all claimed they were with their families last Sunday, indulging in the pre-bank holiday festivities. None of them struck him as a suspect for the murder, though he would be comparing the pupils’ statements. It wouldn’t be the first time that a teacher at a private school had been caught kiddie fiddling. Then again, the victim was a big lad who could look after himself on the rugby pitch. If there was cock-tugging going on, then he must have been involved voluntarily. But Morrie didn’t think that was the case. He could sniff a lie as well as the next copper and he hadn’t caught a whiff of illicit underwear business.

When he’d finished with the staff, Morrie went to the school secretaries’ offices, where the victim’s friends were being interviewed. Nathan Gray asked if he’d take over his list while he went for something to eat and he’d fallen for it. The fucker – he’d be having words with him when he reappeared. That meant he found himself across a desk from a pimply specimen called Percy Andrew Hurston-Woods. ‘Call me Perce,’ the cheeky bugger had said, showing off teeth that Tom Cruise would have been proud of.

‘So, Mr Hurston-Woods,’ Morrie said, ‘you were a friend of Nick Etherington’s?’

‘His best,’ the lad said, choking back a sob. ‘I can’t believe what’s happened.’

The form was to allow people to catch their breath, especially when they were only giving preliminary statements, but Morrie didn’t go along with that. ‘Keep at Them’ was his motto.

‘You have to believe it, lad,’ he said. ‘Were you with him on Sunday night?’

The boy nodded.

‘Brave lot, weren’t you, supporting your pal when he was in need?’

‘I … I didn’t want to get into trouble. My father…’

‘Aye, I can imagine. So, any idea why Nick got himself killed?’

There was more sobbing. ‘He … I … no, I can’t imagine…’

Morrie groaned. ‘Look, it’s not a proposition from Wittgenstein,’ he said. He had a hoard of Monty Python quotations that he liked to use in inappropriate situations. He was the only kid in his class who’d liked the comedians. He didn’t know why, but their sense of the absurd chimed both with the unpleasantness of his childhood and the crazed bureaucracy of the old Northumbria force.

‘What?’ Perce said.

‘Don’t they teach you anything here? Come on, lad, I haven’t got all day. Did Nick have any enemies?’

The schoolboy shook his head. ‘No … everyone … everyone admired him … loved him.’

‘Oh aye? Anyone love him more than the rest?’ He saw he’d hit a nerve. ‘Come on, out with it. Who was he shagging?’

Percy Hurston-Woods blinked. ‘You can’t talk that way about—’

‘I can talk any way I like, son. Answer the question.’

‘I … he…’

Morrie drummed his fingers on the table. He’d found that it often made people spit things out.

‘I don’t know who she was, but he was … he was involved with an older woman.’

Bingo. Morrie Sutton sat back, making no effort to hide his satisfaction. ‘Good for him, eh? What do you mean you don’t know who she is? Young lads talk, we both know that. Tell me or we’ll be taking a trip to Force HQ. You really fancy getting your old man to pick you up there after I’ve finished with you?’

Perce shook his head, his cheeks damp. ‘I don’t know,’ he insisted. ‘You have to believe me.’

Morrie did, but he wasn’t letting him off the hook. ‘Ever see him with her? Did he tell you where they met?’

The boy shook his head, kept shaking it until Morrie began to worry it would drop off and roll across the table.

‘All right,’ he said less fiercely. ‘How long had this been going on for?’

‘Since the beginning of the Easter vac.’

‘Vac? What’s that?’

‘Vacation,’ Perce said. ‘He was very happy some days, then very down. I think … I think she was messing him around.’

‘Did he tell you that?’

‘No, he didn’t say much. In fact, I hardly saw him over the va— holidays. He only told me after the first time that he’d been with an older woman … and that it was amazing.’

Morrie found himself remembering his own youthful adventures. Screwing older women was the number two sport after football in his part of Gateshead and he’d got more than one hiding for his activities. But, like everything else, it would be different for rich folk.

‘Getting back to Sunday night,’ Morrie said. ‘He wasn’t too busy with this lady…’ he said the word sardonically, ‘…to build himself that traffic light costume. What did you go as?’

‘A highwayman.’

‘Stand and deliver, eh? Tell me, whose idea was it to go to Burwell Street? You don’t get much of a view of the fireworks from there.’

‘I’m … I’m not sure.’

Morrie slammed his hand down on the desk. ‘Don’t lie to me!’

Perce’s eyes bulged. ‘Well … I think … no, I’m sure it was Nick’s.’

‘What were you going to do? Get your ends away? Fancied a bit of rough?’ ‘No,’ the schoolboy said shrilly. ‘There were girls with us, our friends.’

‘Uh-huh. So why did Nick take you there?’

‘There’s a pub, well, more like a club, called the Green Onion. They have live music.’

‘Anything else?’ Morrie asked. ‘Any illegal substances?’

Perce’s cheeks went scarlet. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Never mind,’ Morrie said. ‘I’m sure Daddy will understand.’

He let the boy go and went through a similar performance with the remaining three on Nathan’s list – the bugger still hadn’t come back from ‘lunch’. They weren’t as close to Nick Etherington as Perce and had nothing significant to add. Morrie went back to Force HQ. He was pleased with himself. He reckoned he knew more about the victim than Joni Pax did, even though it was her big fuck-off case. That would give the tosser Heck Rutherford something to think about.