Carnal Acts (41 page)

Suzana heard the roar of an engine and the rattle of gravel. Then there was a clang as the door below opened. She listened to the ascending footsteps. Would they stop at the man below or come straight to her? She thought of putting the knife up her sleeve, but it would be seen if she was forced to strip, so she left it where it was. The footsteps stopped and then started again almost immediately. Suzana took a series of deep breaths, remembering what she had done to Leka and the others in the slave house. She had a flash of the mountains around her village, the forests and the high pastures, then shook her head. There was no going back. She had to find a new world, and dealing with her latest captor was the beginning of it.

The sound of heavy boots grew louder. Suzana considered
standing by the door and trying to wrest the shock pole from the pig, but decided that it would be better if she let him come close. She could do the most damage if she looked like she was beaten. She sat on the bed, her shoulders and head down. When the key rattled in the lock, she relaxed, her breathing even and her heart rate steady. Let him come.

The door burst inwards and the pole appeared, followed by the masked man. He shouted at her. She didn’t know the words, but she understood what he wanted – his eyes, wild as a rutting boar’s, were on her body. She took off her clothes slowly. She left her pants on – they were grey and over-sized, not in the least sexy, and her captor signalled to her to take them off, the pole wavering as he stepped closer. She stepped out of them and flicked them away coquettishly with one foot. The pole was laid down and a hand grabbed her left breast. She moaned and that made him breathe heavily. He came closer, both hands now on her breasts. Suzana sighed and moved her hand downwards. Then she tugged the knife out of herself, pressed the blade forward and slashed at the thin strip of skin beneath the woollen mask. As he staggered back, gasping, she bent down and picked up the pole. She hit him on the hand and then the head, unsure if the shock was as effective through clothing. He jerked backwards, one hand to his throat, blood spilling between his fingers. Suzana used the pole to drive him towards the bathroom. He stumbled against the step and fell backwards, his head striking the rim of the toilet. He lay still. She shoved his legs into the small room and turned to go. Then she was overwhelmed by curiosity. What did the pig look like? She squatted over her captor, knife held forward. Then she pulled off the mask and gasped. The pig in black was a woman – middle-aged, heavy and unattractive. Her hair was brown and greasy. The bitch. Suzana slammed the metal door shut and slid the exterior bolts. She dropped to her knees, panting. She was free.

When she got her breath back, Suzana dressed and put the knife in her trouser pocket. The pig had a larger knife in a sheath on her belt, but she wasn’t going to open the door to grab
it. Her former captor might be pretending to be unconscious.

Suzana took the shock pole and ran out on to the narrow landing. Before she went down the worn stone steps, she removed the keys from the door. She glanced at the stone walls. What was this? A castle? She banged on the door.

‘Hel-lo?’ she called softly. Maybe there were more pigs nearby. ‘Hel-lo? I op-en.’ She drew the bolts and tried the keys in the lock. Finally one turned. She swung the door inwards, holding on to the handle.

‘Hel-lo?’

At first she didn’t see anyone. The bathroom door was open, so she assumed the captive was hiding in there. Then she saw movement to her left. A big man was coming at her. She raised the pole and hit him on the hand. He yelled. Then she touched him again, this time on the neck. He fell back and lay
motionless
. She looked at his face and recognised him – the man who had jumped on her from the sow bike, the pig who had ripped at her clothes. She retreated, pulling the door to and locking it.

Suzana wiped the sweat from her face and went down the steps, holding the pole in front of her. She could smell cool, fresh air. This time she really was free.

Then she heard a man outside shout and her hopes turned to dust. A second later, she was confronted by a young woman with short brown hair. In her hands she held a metal object like the shock pole she herself was carrying.

They stared at each other, motionless as the shouting came nearer.

‘Andrew!’ Michael Etherington had yelled several times.

Lord Favon finally turned to him, his eyes widening. For once he wasn’t wearing a hat and his bald patch glinted in the sinking sun.

‘Michael? What are you doing? Put that bloody rifle down.’

‘No, Andrew. The shotgun, on the gravel. Now!’

‘I … oh, all right.’ Favon complied, standing up again with his face red. ‘What the hell’s the meaning of this? Was it you who shot Reston’s dogs? Why are you dressed like a bloody soldier?’

The general walked closer. ‘Because that’s what I am. You think I stopped when I retired? I’m fighting a new war now.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, man. Who’s the enemy?’

‘Your friends, the Albanians.’

‘What?’

Michael looked beyond him. ‘It’s all right, Evie,’ he said, picking up the shotgun. ‘Who’s your friend?’

The two young women stared at him, then the one in ill-fitting clothes dropped the cattle prod and rushed at Andrew Favon, raking his face with her nails and screaming words in a language that Etherington recognised, even though he couldn’t speak much. The pair collapsed and the woman stayed on top. Suddenly there was a small blade in her hand and she started slashing at Favon’s head and neck.

Evie seemed to have been turned into a statue, her eyes fixed on the spectacle in front of her. Michael Etherington went over and handed her the shotgun after checking that it was loaded.

‘You know how to use this?’

Evie twitched and came back to herself. ‘Yes.’

‘Cover me while I sort this out.’ The general put down his rifle, stepped forward and grabbed the woman by the scruff of her neck, knocking the knife from her hand. Then he told her to stand still and be calm– that much he could say in Albanian. He pulled Andrew Favon to his feet and examined his wounds. There was a lot of blood, but he couldn’t see any serious cuts.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go to the Hall. Victoria will clean you up.’

Favon didn’t reply. He looked like he was in shock.

‘What happened, Evie?’ Michael asked, as they went to the back of the Hall.

‘I … I don’t know. The girl was in the tower, I think she’d been locked up. Why did she do that to my father?’

‘Not sure. Anyone else in there?’

‘I don’t know. I met her on her way down. She was holding that cattle prod. I spoke to her, though I’m not sure she understood. She was worried about my crutch until she realised what it was. She was scared by the shouting.’

The general glanced at the young woman. She looked in control of herself now, but he’d seen the frenzy on her face when she attacked Favon. He knew why as well, but he wasn’t going to tell Evie. He’d seen her run out of the brothel on Sunday night. She was Suzana, the murder suspect the police had been looking for. It was obvious that Andrew had been a customer, no doubt a demanding one.

The basement door opened.

‘What on earth’s happened?’ Victoria Favon demanded. ‘Andrew, are you all right? What are you doing with that shotgun, Evie? Give it to me immediately.’

‘So you can lock me up again? No, thanks.’

‘Lock you up?’ Michael said. He looked at Victoria. ‘Is this true?’

‘Don’t intrude in family matters. How dare you shoot Dan’s dogs?’

The general’s jaw jutted forward. ‘Because they were about to rip my throat out. Besides, these aren’t just your family matters, they’re mine too. What did you do to Nick?’

Victoria took a step back. ‘To Nick? Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Let’s go inside,’ Michael said. ‘Evie’s tired and your man’s about to collapse.’

‘My man!’ Lady Favon said scathingly.

Ruth Dickie was not happy, primarily with herself. Although no one could have predicted there would be assassination attempts on DCI Rutherford and DI Pax, she knew how dangerous the Albanians were. The second man at Heck’s house wasn’t talking, but he was swarthy – Ag Rutherford’s word – with curly black hair. She was pretty sure he was one of them. If Richard Lennox or one of his sidekicks arrived to represent him, that would clinch it.

She should also have listened to Joni Pax. Her suspicions about the Favons had seemed fantastical, but she’d kept beavering away. The ACC would be recommending to the chief constable that a warrant to search the Hall and other premises on the estate be sought.

‘Cup of tea, dear?’ her husband asked.

‘I’m working,’ she said, in a steel voice.

After he’d closed the door behind her, Ruth Dickie rested her head on a hand. Today could have been a disaster. She was lucky the casualty count was so low. How had the Albanians discovered so much about her officers? She had a suspect in mind – DCI Young. Although he hadn’t yet been caught in contact with them, she was sure he was taking their money. Tomorrow morning she would squeeze him until he leaked blood.

The Force helicopter was on its way to Favon Hall, along with the armed unit that had been at Joni Pax’s mother’s cottage. It was clear to her that DI Pax had gone to the Hall on the assumption that the gunman who had escaped was headed there. What worried her most was that Joni wasn’t answering her mobile. She was a good detective, but she was rash. That could have got her into very deep water indeed.

The ACC called Heck Rutherford. She was concerned he would be having a reaction to what he’d been through – she had seen something approaching fear in his eyes in the weeks since he came back to work. When she told him of her concern, he
said he would set off immediately for Favon Hall with Pancake Rokeby.

Ruth Dickie hadn’t known the DS’s nickname. Maybe a girlfriend had given it to him.

There was no one in the estate’s outer fields as it was Sunday. It took Joni seven minutes to reach the ornamental gate to Favon Hall, having forced two cars into the ditches that lined the narrow road. There was a pair of cones across the entrance, but she ran the Land Rover over them without braking. The long driveway meandered between lines of copper and silver beeches so thick that the light was almost shut out. Then she came into the open to the left of the Hall. There was no sign of any other cars. The medieval tower was to the rear on her right, the red Hilux parked outside the building’s open door. Joni considered going there, but decided against it. The tower looked like it was ready to collapse. She saw vehicles at the front of the Hall – Lady Favon’s sports car and her husband’s red Land Cruiser. There was no sign of the black 4×4. As she got nearer, she realised that the wheels on the nearside of both vehicles had burst. When she got out of the Land Rover, she saw the spatter of shotgun pellets. Her heart began to beat more quickly.

The main door was open. Joni went up the steps and into the entrance hall. Standing still, she listened but there was no sound of people. Joni could see the sitting room where she, Heck and Pete Rokeby had interviewed the aristocrats, but there was no one in there. She checked the other rooms on the ground floor – dining room, kitchen, study, breakfast room, TV room, unimpressive picture gallery, and the magnificent old library – but there was no sign of anyone. She went down the stairs behind a green baize-covered door and past a laundry room. Beyond it
most of the rooms were filled with dusty old furniture and junk. Then she came to a door that led outside. It was half open. She looked down and noticed drops of blood on the step outside. Turning round, she saw more on the passage she had walked along.

‘Shit,’ she said. She’d potentially contaminated a crime scene. She went back the way she’d come, keeping close to the wall. The drops grew less frequent, as if a bandage or the like had been applied.

Back on the ground floor, Joni ran up the wide staircase. She took in the large portraits on the walls showing heavy, self-satisfied men in the clothes of days gone by, medals and other decorations on their frock coats and swords at their belts. In the background of each painting were fields and plantations. Looking closer, she saw the bent bodies of black men and women, the former wearing nothing but loincloths and the latter in white dresses and headbands. Each portrait’s subject had a table in front of him, bearing a tea service with an especially large sugar bowl heaped high with white grains. Sugar – the gold of the Caribbean and source of Britain’s empire. Joni knew enough about history to make that connection. She took in the haughty faces again – slave traders, exploiters, thieves. The Hall had an unhealthy air and she felt her lungs constrict.

She stopped on the landing and listened. She could hear voices coming down a corridor. The walls were pale pink, with elaborately carved doors and frames on either side. As she approached the open door at the end, there came a scream that turned into heart-rending sobs. Joni remembered the screwdriver in her pocket and grabbed it.

‘No!’ came a woman’s voice. ‘For God’s sake, no!’

Joni entered the room and took in the scene. There were five people in the sitting area by the high window looking over the garden to the edge of the moor. To the right was a large bed. Andrew Favon had a towel over his head, and another round his neck. The skin on his face and forehead was torn and there was a lot of blood. He was breathing heavily.

‘DI Pax,’ said Michael Etherington. ‘Just the person.’ The muzzle of his hunting rifle was against the side of Victoria Favon’s head. She looked terrified, but her expression quickly changed.

‘Put down the weapon, sir,’ Joni said, aware that the screwdriver made her look ridiculous. ‘You do the same with the shotgun, Ms Favon, please.’

Neither complied. She examined the thin figure in outsize clothes crouching beside an armchair.

‘Suzana?’ she said. ‘Suzana Noli?’

The young woman looked at her blankly and then gave her a weak smile. ‘Pax? Jo-ni Pax?’

‘Are you all right?’ Joni asked, in Italian. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

Suzana replied in ungrammatical Italian, speaking quickly. Joni glanced at the others. The general was still aiming the rifle at Lady Favon, while her daughter had gone to Lord Favon. At first Joni thought she was going to comfort him. Instead, Evie put a hand in his jacket pocket and took out several orange cartridges. She slipped two of them into the shotgun she had broken, then snapped it shut and pointed it at her mother. Eventually Suzana stopped talking and ran the back of a hand over her lips.

‘What did she say?’ Evie asked.

Joni shook her head. ‘That she was attacked by a man on the moor, who is locked in a room in the tower, as she was. There’s also a middle-aged and, in her words, “ugly and fat” woman in the bathroom.’

‘Cheryl,’ Evie said. ‘I saw her go in, but I thought it was Dan. She was wearing a balaclava.’

Joni nodded. ‘Suzana was brought to the tower by a heavy-shouldered man with a moustache. He had two large and vicious dogs.’ She looked at Lord Favon. ‘That would have been Dan Reston. You didn’t take him to Newcastle train station, did you?’

Favon mumbled something incomprehensible.

‘Who’s the man in the tower?’ Joni asked.

Lady Favon had recovered her poise. ‘Oliver Forrest. My husband’s been at loggerheads with him for years. He finally lost his cool.’

‘Vick!’ Andrew gasped. ‘What … what are you saying?’

‘He had that Albanian tart under lock and key too.’ Lady Favon laughed harshly. ‘Pampering her so he could do the things to her that I stopped letting him do to me years ago.’ She moved her head against the rifle muzzle. ‘Michael, now there’s a police officer here, perhaps you would consider removing the weapon?’

General Etherington gave that some thought and said, ‘No. Not until you’ve answered my questions.’

‘And mine,’ Evie said, limping forward.

Joni had gone to Suzana and helped her to an armchair. She saw a carafe of water on an antique table and filled a glass for the young woman. She smiled at her and then turned to the others.

‘The weapons,’ she said. ‘Please lower them.’

The general looked at her and nodded. He put the rifle on the floor behind him. Evie did the same with the shotgun and went to sit on the window seat.

‘Thank you,’ Joni said. ‘Lord Favon, are you badly injured?’

‘Only flesh wounds,’ he said, with more spirit than she’d have expected.

Joni looked around the well-appointed room. ‘Why are you here rather than downstairs?’

‘My daughter’s idea,’ Victoria said suavely. ‘She thinks there are hidden secrets in my room.’

‘Well, aren’t there?’ Evie shouted. She turned to Joni. ‘I heard them lie to you about the Restons.’ She let out a sob. ‘And I heard her say she had sex with Nick.’

‘Before you were with him, darling.’

‘Let’s talk about Nick,’ Michael Etherington said. ‘He’s why I’m here. I knew you had an affair with him, Victoria. He told me. Fortunately he soon got over it.’

Lady Favon’s carefully made-up face clenched.

‘But you wanted him again when he started visiting Evie, didn’t you?’ The general stepped closer. ‘Didn’t you?’

‘Calm down, Michael. And what if I did?’

‘You wanted to take him from me,’ Evie said, her voice breaking. ‘You … you couldn’t stand … to see me happy.’

‘You were in the Suzuki that drove Nick off the road, weren’t you, Victoria?’ the general said.

Lady Favon looked at Joni. ‘Shouldn’t you be asking the questions, Detective Inspector?’

‘I think he’s doing an excellent job,’ Joni said, wondering how Michael Etherington had found out who was in the 4×4.

‘Who killed him?’ the general yelled. ‘You weren’t driving. Was that bastard Reston at the wheel?’

Victoria Favon looked down. ‘Yes, he was. I just wanted to teach Nick a lesson. I stopped him after he left Evie that night and told him how much I wanted him. The impudent boy told me that he loved Evie and, besides, I was too old for him.’

‘Teach Nick a lesson?’ Michael repeated. ‘By running him off the road? You could have killed him straight off.’

‘Dan said it was soft ground there.’

The general’s face was red. ‘So who took the rock and smashed the life out of him?’

‘Certainly not me.’

‘There were prints from size ten Adipower baseball boots,’ Joni said. ‘I’d say Reston was wearing them.’

‘Thank you, DI Pax,’ Victoria Favon said.

‘But you didn’t stop him,’ Etherington said, his spittle flecking her face. ‘Perhaps you even incited him.’

‘I didn’t have to, Michael. Dan Reston’s been jealous of the men I’ve been involved with for years – ever since I stopped seeing him.’

Lord Favon’s head dropped, while Evie gasped in disgust.

‘He’s impotent after his prostate operation,’ Joni said. ‘Did that make him even angrier?’

‘Indeed it did.’ Lady Favon smiled gratefully.

Joni caught her gaze. ‘At the very least you’re guilty of aiding and abetting a murderer,’ she said.

‘In that case, so is my husband. He was very keen that
something
happen to Nick. The boy recognised him at the brothel in Corham on Sunday night, despite the ghastly wig he was wearing.’

Joni nodded; it was as she had suspected. ‘How do you know all this?’ she asked the general.

‘I have a reliable source.’

‘The bugger who’s been blackmailing me?’ Andrew Favon asked, raising his head.

‘Correct,’ Michael said. ‘You’re both in well over your heads and you’re going to pay for it.’

Joni had a good idea who the blackmailer was. She looked at Lady Favon, remembering the research she’d done. ‘You knew soon after you were married that Lord Favon was infertile.’

‘Before, as a matter of fact. I didn’t care. The deal was that I produce an heir to the title – it didn’t matter who the sperm donor was.’ Victoria Favon smiled sadly. ‘Evie’s father was a pleasant if dim electrician but after that nothing stuck, so to speak. It wasn’t for lack of trying, I can assure you.’

‘You wanted a male heir,’ Joni said.

‘Needed one, more like,’ Victoria said, glancing at her daughter. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but you won’t inherit. Some lumberjack in Ontario will be the next Lord Favon unless I can get pregnant.’

‘You won’t have much chance of that in prison,’ Evie said, surprisingly calm.

‘Anything’s possible if you know the right people.’

‘And if you have the money,’ Joni said. ‘But you’re in trouble financially, aren’t you?’ She looked at Andrew Favon.

‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, head down again. ‘I only sign the cheques.’

Michael Etherington was staring at Lady Favon. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one who got in with the Albanians.’

She shrugged. ‘Something had to be done. The estate’s been
haemorrhaging money for years. The financial crash was a disaster for us. The Albanians…’

The stutter of machine-pistol fire made Joni dive to the side. Suzana and Evie also hit the carpet, but Victoria sat perfectly still. Plaster fell from the ceiling in snow-like flakes.

‘There you are,’ the lady of the house said. ‘Couldn’t you have made an appearance earlier?’

The man in the black leather jacket and cap smiled. There was a bandage round his upper left arm. Joni realised he was the one whose shots had hit her mother and Morrie Simmons.

Lady Favon twitched her lips. ‘What are you going to do with these miserable creatures?’

‘Kill them, of course.’ The gunman’s English was precise, the accent neutral and almost robotic. ‘The police officer Pax has already escaped death twice today. The whore Suzana Noli should be fucked to death, but there isn’t time for that. No doubt more police are on the way. I presume you want me to kill your man.’ He glanced at Lord Favon, who was staring at him, mouth agape.

Victoria Favon’s brow furrowed. ‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘In normal circumstances, he would be a useful hostage – to make sure you deliver the profits on our investment as you promised. But this is an exceptional situation and…’ The Albanian broke off and gave the viscountess a slack smile. ‘And you are not a normal mother.’

Something in the tone of his voice alerted both Joni and Lady Favon. The latter stood up and moved towards him.

‘Stop,’ he said, pointing the gun at her. ‘You are not at all a normal person. You are unreliable and you know too much.’

Victoria screamed but, before her killer could pull the trigger, there was a single, loud shot. As the Albanian fell back, a gaping wound in his chest, the machine pistol moved to his right. An oblique line of wounds ran from Michael Etherington’s right shoulder to the left of his groin. He crashed to the floor and didn’t move again.

Evie and her mother shrieked, while Lord Favon sat motionless. But Suzana was smiling as she got to her feet.

‘He was a Popi,’ she said, in Italian. ‘They all deserve death.’

The distant sound of a siren cut through the ringing in Joni’s ears. Backup had arrived and it was too late. Or was it?