Carnal Acts (37 page)

Sergeant Moody brought a large brown envelope up to Heck’s office. ‘Some kid from the
Bugle
tossed this on the front desk and scarpered.’

‘Probably worried you’d take the paper’s crap reporting of police work out on him, Len.’

‘Aye, I could believe that. Won’t be long till Mrs Normal’s round there bashing heads.’ The sergeant paused. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but are you all right? You look like…’

‘Death after thirty seconds in the microwave?’ Heck emptied the envelope’s contents on the desk. ‘I get that a lot.’

‘Yes, but should you be back at work full-time?’

Heck looked up. He’d known Len Moody for years and knew he meant well, but he was getting sick of people offering sympathy. ‘Listen, I might look like shite but I didn’t have brain surgery. Get out of here.’ He waited until the sergeant had reached the door. ‘And don’t refer to the ACC that way ever again.’

They managed to confine their laughter to a couple of barks.

Heck spread the photos over his desk. Gary Hext, the sports editor at the
Bugle
, had played in the Corham second row for years and was used to having Heck’s head in close proximity to his arse. He complained about printing out the photos, but Heck insisted. His eyes got tired staring at digital images, not that he’d be telling Len Moody.

He’d asked only for shots of the presentation ceremony. Gary said he was lucky the photographer hadn’t wiped his card,
whatever
that meant. There were forty-six images, but most were of the younger age groups that had preceded the main final. Victoria Favon was caught smiling, but it was obvious she wasn’t enjoying herself. Andrew was grim-faced, not bothering to acknowledge the lads who climbed the short flight of steps. Behind them Michael Etherington seemed happy enough – one image showed him chatting animatedly to his neighbour, a middle-aged man Heck didn’t recognise, and another clapping enthusiastically. He’d often sat in those seats himself – every season until this one – and had enjoyed seeing the young uns showing off their skills. Then again, he was a rugby addict, as was Michael Etherington, while the Favons definitely weren’t.

He looked at the images of the final presentation. Nick Etherington really had been a fine figure of a lad – tall and straight-backed despite the hard matches he’d played over the afternoon, and smiling broadly. His grandfather looked as if he would burst with pride, while Andrew Favon gave the boy a snooty look. The big difference was in Victoria. Her ladyship had been transformed, her eyes wide and her face animated. She was holding Nick’s muddy hand in several shots, while he tried to keep hold of the trophy in the other.

Heck leaned forward and scrutinised the last photo. What was Nick Etherington doing? His right hand was either going into or coming out of the pocket of his shorts. Had Victoria slipped him something? He looked at the other images, but none was similar. Had she slipped him her number in front of her husband and
hundreds of other people? The way she looked was the giveaway. This was a woman who had the hots for Nick in a big way.

The question was, what had that to do with his murder seven weeks later? Then he had another thought. Michael Etherington was still missing. He’d known about his grandson’s affair. Perhaps he’d noticed the way Victoria behaved towards him at the Sevens. Had he found a connection between her and Nick’s murder? If so, he was capable of doing major damage.

The Popi were in a windowless room in central Newcastle, sitting on one side of a cheap metal table. The older Albanian was wearing a black polo neck and jeans and the younger was in an ex-German army jacket. The man opposite wore a denim jacket and matching trousers, his brown hair cut high at the sides, with a thick swathe lying across his forehead. There were several objects on the table.

‘We never use real names,’ the older Popi said. ‘I am Jackal, my colleague is Hyena and you are Gazelle.’

‘Gazelle? Why can’t I be a meat-eater too?’

‘The names are randomly generated,’ the younger Popi said. ‘The memory stick, please?’

Gazelle, a white man in his late twenties, felt inside his jacket and placed a blue 4GB stick on the table.

‘Your computer is secure?’

‘I use an iPad with enhanced protection. As soon as the wrong password is entered, all the files are immediately turned into gobbledygook.’

‘Good. Give us your suggestions for the operation.’

Gazelle laughed. ‘Operation? What is this, the SAS?’

The Popi looked back at him, their eyes blank.

‘Sorry. Right, the operation. Detective Inspector Joni Pax.
Hitting her at the weekend is definitely the way to go, and Sunday’s best. She’s less likely to be working than on Saturday – the woman works more overtime than your tarts. As for taking her out in front of her mother, this Moonbeam weirdo – yeah, why not? I was thinking of putting the fear of a large knife up her and getting her to call her daughter, saying she’s ill and needs looking after.’

Hyena raised a hand. ‘You’re aware that the target and her mother have a troubled relationship. Maybe she won’t go.’

Gazelle grinned. ‘I think I’ll be able to make it convincing.’

‘It’s risky,’ Jackal said, lighting a cigarette with a gold Zippo. ‘Even though they appear not to be close, the daughter may realise her mother’s under duress and call for reinforcements.’

‘Under duress?’ Gazelle said. ‘Where did you guys learn English?’

There were more hollow stares.

‘Anyway,’ Gazelle continued, ‘you want me to cut Joni Pax up badly.’

‘While she is still alive,’ Hyena said.

‘I’m on my own, the briefing said. Joni Pax is a big woman and she knows judo. I’m not saying I can’t handle her, even with her mother present, but I’d rather she walk to her final resting place than I have to drag her there.’ He paused. ‘I’ll kill her in Moonbeam’s cottage – Jesus loves me for a moonbeam, ha ha – which is in the middle of nowhere.’

‘That is up to you,’ the older Popi said. ‘We would prefer the detective to be found in her apartment in Corham, but it’s a town-centre location and the risk for you is greater.’

Gazelle smiled. ‘No problem, I’ll work it out.’

‘You’d better,’ Hyena said. ‘If
we
have to clean up, we clean up everyone. You follow?’

Gazelle looked less sure of himself. ‘I follow.’

‘You’ve been paid a substantial sum of money, which will be doubled on completion of the operation,’ Jackal said. ‘Do you have any questions?’

‘No, no.’

The older man smiled, but there was no trace of humour on his face. ‘Have a good time, my friend. But be careful. I think you know we can reach anyone in the British prison system, maximum security units included. Should you talk, sooner or later you will die choking on your own reproductive organ.’

Gazelle put his hands on the table to show he wasn’t
trembling
. ‘What’s all this gear, then?’ he asked.

Hyena ran through the equipment, his fingers hovering over each piece but never touching. There was a Daewoo DP51 semi-automatic pistol and two clips with nine 9mm Parabellum rounds, a KA-BAR seven-inch fighting knife and sheath, and a mobile phone with six SIM cards in small clear plastic bags, each with a number between one and six written on it in indelible ink.

‘The account linked to each card has five pounds credit and is strictly for single use,’ the younger Popi said. ‘You have memorised our contact number, yes?’

Gazelle parroted it without hesitation.

‘Good, but we do not expect to hear from you except in extreme emergency. When you have made a call, remove the SIM, destroy it and insert the next in the series. Do not use your own phone, which should already be turned off and the battery removed.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Gazelle said, ‘I read all that in the briefing.’

Both the Popi leaned forward.

‘I emphasise it,’ Hyena said, ‘because in our experience communication systems are a weak link. We would prefer you to be completely out of contact, but that has its own dangers.’

‘What, like you might change your minds about the operation?’

Jackal laughed, deep in his throat. ‘There’s no chance of that. By midnight on Sunday, DI Joni Pax will be in the state you’re required to arrange, whatever happens.’

Hyena pushed a large plastic bag towards Gazelle with the toe
of his work boot. ‘Balaclava – keep it on at all times. Waterproof jacket, trousers and boots. Wear them when you cut her, then stand under the shower in them.’

‘You’ve got this all worked out,’ Gazelle said, looking at the clothing. ‘How many times have you done it?’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Oh, right. Bye.’

The Popi waited until he had gone.

‘Will he do?’ the younger man asked, in their language.

‘Probably. It’s the other one I’m less sure about.’

Hyena looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Shall we do it ourselves?’

‘No, he will be satisfactory. The policeman has not fully recovered from abdominal surgery, his father is old, his wife is small and his children are young. Leopard will kill him in front of them.’

The younger Popi nodded. ‘He is very angry.’

‘Anger is good. Up to a point.’

‘True.’ Hyena stood up. ‘There is one thing we have not decided. Which of us will watch over Gazelle and which over Leopard?’

Jackal got to his feet, standing on the cigarette end he had dropped. ‘Are you ready for the policeman and his family?’

‘Uncle, you insult me by asking.’

The men laughed and embraced each other.

Joni drove to the Etheringtons’ village on Saturday morning. No further progress had been made on the cases on Friday and, though she was off duty, she wanted to keep an eye on things. The uniformed officers watching the roads in and out had seen no sign of General Etherington. His daughter-in-law hadn’t left home, but had been visited by two women separately. Both gave
her baskets of food and neither stayed long. Joni considered going in to ask Rosie if she’d heard from Michael. In the end she didn’t. The idea of having to admit that they were no nearer to catching Nick’s killer put her off.

Later she drove to the field where Wayne Garston’s foreign labourers had been working. They were back, even though it was the weekend. The overweight ganger was leaning on the gatepost. He didn’t look happy to see her.

‘No rest for the innocent?’ Joni asked, getting out of the Land Rover.

‘Eh?’

‘Your work force. Don’t they get time off?’

‘Tomorrow. Look, I’m not supposed to talk to you. I’m calling Mr Lennox’s office. Oy, where are you going?’ Garston hurried after her into the kale field.

‘I’m going to talk to the women, Wayne.’ Joni gave him a slack smile. ‘Find out if you’ve been having it away with any of them.’

The look on his face was as good as a signed confession.

‘You sleazy pus bag,’ she said, drawing up her shoulders. ‘I’m going to break your back.’ She went into a fighting stance.

‘You canna do that,’ the ganger said, taking a step back. ‘There are witnesses.’

‘Who’ll all testify that you attacked me.’ She grinned. ‘Or do you want to take a chance on that?’

It was obvious Garston was no fighter.

‘What do you want?’ he said, eyes down. ‘The Albanians will rip my tongue out if they find out I’ve talked.’

‘I’m not interested in the Albanians,’ Joni said, straightening up. ‘I want to hear about Dan Reston and his wife.’

‘Haven’t seen him recently. Or spoken to him.’ He glanced at her. ‘I keep away because of Cheryl. She’s even crazier than he is.’

‘You wouldn’t happen to have heard that they’re away on holiday?’

Garston laughed. ‘Them? They never go anywhere. Dan runs the estate. The Favons can’t do without him.’

‘And what about Cheryl? Can they do without her?’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Last I heard she was doing stuff in the Hall.’

‘So why is it you keep away from her exactly? What did she do to upset your sensitive soul?’

The ganger’s eyes were down again. ‘She raped me.’

Joni blinked. ‘What?’

‘You heard me? She tied me down one night when I was in their place. I can’t remember where Dan was, we’d been boozing. He was probably shagging a sheep. Cheryl got on top of me and bounced up and down until … you know.’ He turned away. ‘Jesus, it was horrible. Not just because she’s heavy and ugly as sin. She bit me on the neck. It didn’t heal for weeks. Here, look.’ He turned down his collar.

‘Nasty,’ Joni said, taking in the rows of deep indentations. She pulled out her phone and took a photo before he could react.

‘What’s that for?’ he said, covering himself up.

‘Comparison purposes,’ Joni said. ‘Anything else you want to tell me about the Restons?’

‘Well …’

‘It’ll be good for you if we arrest them with your help.’

‘I’m no rat.’

They all said something like that. ‘Of course not. But I’ve had bad reports about them. Besides, if Reston goes down, the factor’s job would be up for grabs. You’re already halfway there with the workers you supply.’

Wayne Garston looked as if he’d been kicked up the arse. ‘I never thought of that.’ He came closer and Joni’s nostrils filled with the stink of old and new sweat. There was something worse in the wind: the reek of greed. ‘Now, Dan, he’s a cunning bugger and a careful one. But he’s got a weak point. You promise to put in a good word for me if I tell you?’

Joni nodded, fingers crossed in her mind.

‘All right. He was ill last year. Cancer, I heard. Did something to his …’ Garston pointed to his groin. ‘He can’t get it up any more.’

‘I wasn’t hoping he’d come on to me, Wayne.’

‘No, not that. He’s got even nastier since then. I heard he kills animals by hand. And he eats bits of them raw …’

Joni swallowed bile.

‘A friend of mine saw him take down a sheep,’ the ganger continued. ‘His dogs were with him, of course.’

‘The Dobermans?’

‘You know about them? Make sure you don’t let them get anywhere near you.’

Joni walked away, calling Heck. They had to nail the Restons before someone else’s throat was ripped out.