Carnal Acts (7 page)

ACC Crime Ruth Dickie leant against the window ledge and looked at the three officers sitting on the other side of her desk. She liked to have height advantage, even though she was no more than five foot five in her flat shoes.

‘Let me recap. One of the men attacked in the brothel is dead from the head injuries he suffered. Another, who was stabbed, is recovering from surgery and out of danger. Predictably, he hasn’t said a word. There’s been no sign of the man who walked down the street with what was described as a piece of cutlery sticking out of his head. Apart from confirming they’re from Albania, none of the women has said anything material to the investigation.’ The ACC looked at Joni.

‘Correct, ma’am. They’re terrified for their families back home.’

‘They didn’t even give you the missing woman’s name?’

Joni shook her head. ‘They say they didn’t know it. It may be true. They don’t seem to know each other. The pimps probably kept them in separate rooms.’

‘Vile but not unheard of,’ Ruth Dickie said. ‘As for you, DI Sutton, you found a safe at the house in Burwell Street. Unfortunately, raising a magistrate has been a slow process, but we should have it open in the afternoon.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Morrie confirmed, looking pleased with himself.

‘But canvassing of the vicinity has been singularly unproductive.’

Heck struggled not to smile. Ruth Dickie’s standard operating procedure was to skewer subordinates when they thought the pressure was off.

‘Well, the people down there aren’t exactly our biggest fans. A lot of the men would have been customers of the knocking shop. We did find one old lady willing to talk, ma’am.’

‘The witness who said the man had a fork in his head because she recognised the distinctive handle? The forked man.’ If the ACC was proud of her witticism, she didn’t show it. ‘She also told you that a very tall person in a red hat was outside the house in question.’

This time Heck had to raise a hand to his mouth.

‘Yeah, she got confused by the lad dressed as a traffic light.’

Ruth Dickie turned her gaze back to Joni. ‘Who told you little of substance, DI Pax.’

‘I’m going to do a follow-up interview, ma’am.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Morrie Sutton expostulated. ‘This is my case.’

The ACC had no interest in turf wars. ‘DCI Rutherford?’

‘DI Sutton left the interview before it got going, so DI Pax will continue for the sake of consistency.’

‘Thank you. Your priorities as of now are what?’

‘Joni … DI Pax will see if she can get anything out of the man in hospital when he’s fit to talk.’ Heck glanced at Morrie. ‘While DI Sutton will act on what is found in the safe, as well as coordinate the SOCOs’ reports.’

Ruth Dickie nodded. ‘And the house? It’s all very well it being owned by this Liberian company, but someone local must be paying the bills.’

‘DI Sutton’s team will look at that, ma’am,’ Heck confirmed.

‘Very well. I’ll see you at the morning briefing tomorrow.’

Joni stood up and looked at the ACC. ‘Pardon me, ma’am, but what about the women?’

Ruth Dickie showed little interest in the question. ‘Didn’t you say they were being looked after in a hostel until the Border Agency’s checks are completed?’

‘Yes, but it’s not secure. They’ve been sexually abused for who knows how long, but at the same time they don’t want to antagonise the men who brought them here. I’m worried they’ll slip away.’

‘We don’t have the resources to babysit them, DI Pax. Unless you want to volunteer.’

‘Maybe I will, ma’am,’ Joni said, glancing at Heck. ‘But there’s someone else at risk.’

‘I presume you mean the woman who murdered one man, put another in hospital and forked another.’ This time the ACC did smile, but there was little sign of amusement. ‘I should have thought the citizens of Corham are the ones at risk. Her description has been circulated, has it not, DI Sutton?’

Morrie nodded, giving Joni a sly smile. ‘Yes, ma’am. We’ll catch the … we’ll catch her soon enough.’

‘That will be all,’ Ruth Dickie said, looking at Joni doubtfully. Displays of emotion were not to her taste.

‘It’s OK, Nick,’ his mother said, handing him a plate of bacon, sausage and scrambled eggs. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

Michael was already halfway through his breakfast. ‘That’s right, lad. But if I get my hands on those so-called friends of yours, they’ll be sorry.’

His grandson looked at him blankly. ‘Leave them alone. Pete hung around for a bit. Anyway, I’d have done the same.’

‘I sincerely hope not. Friends are the most important thing in life. I still have…’ He broke off when he saw his
daughter-in-law’
s face. ‘Come on, eat up. We don’t want to be late for the fishing.’

‘Not coming,’ Nick said, pushing his plate across the table and getting up.

‘Wait, darling,’ his mother said, holding on to his arm as he tried to leave the kitchen. ‘We have to talk about this.’

‘About what?’ Nick said, pulling gently away and walking out.

They heard his footsteps on the stairs.

‘I don’t understand,’ Rosie said, her eyes damp. ‘He’s never been like this before. Not even when … when Alistair died.’

‘He saw some bad stuff last night,’ Michael said. ‘And he should never have been handcuffed, let alone interrogated. I thought that black woman had her head screwed on, but now I’m not so sure.’

Rosie sat down and stared at her son’s untouched food.

‘Don’t worry,’ her father-in-law said. ‘I’ll go and have a chat with him when he’s cooled down. You know what it is?’

‘No … oh, you mean girl trouble.’

Michael nodded. ‘You know, I can understand the girls in his party clearing off, but his male friends shouldn’t have run.’

‘They’re just kids,’ Rosie said softly. ‘Don’t judge them as if they were in the army.’

The major general didn’t respond. His daughter-in-law still hadn’t got over the loss of Alistair, for all his faults, and letting go of Nick was proving difficult for her. He hated to imagine how she’d be when Nick went to the Far East. He found himself thinking about the female detective with the curious name. Pax. Good name for a law keeper. She reminded him of a sergeant who’d served in his communications unit in Bosnia. Mavis Westron. He’d never touched her – he didn’t do that kind of thing with female personnel – but there was an aura about her, a strange mixture of ‘come hither’ and ‘do so and I’ll break your fingers’. DI Pax had something similar.

‘I’ll take him a coffee,’ Michael said. He went to the cafetière on the sideboard, poured himself one too and put the mugs on a tray.

He paused outside his grandson’s door. Usually there was ear-shattering music coming from it, but today he could hear the birdsong in the meadow behind the house. He knocked and turned the handle. To his surprise, the door was locked.

‘Nick? I’ve brought you a coffee. Come on, chap. I won’t bite.’

There was a pause and then the key clicked. The door still didn’t open. Michael turned the handle, balancing the tray on his other hand. Nick was sitting with his arms round his
drawn-up
legs in the far corner of his bed.

‘I don’t want anything to drink, Gramps,’ he said fiercely.

Michael raised his shoulders. ‘I’m not going to pour it down your throat.’ He smiled. ‘Though I could if I wanted to.’ That didn’t raise even the ghost of a smile. They had always had a tactile relationship, the older man hugging his grandson and ruffling his hair. They still occasionally played touch rugby in the back garden, but it didn’t look like that wouldn’t be happening today.

‘Spit it out, then, lad. Problem shared and all that.’

Nick remained silent.

‘Your mum thinks it’s girl trouble.’

‘Why? What have you told her?’

Michael raised a hand. ‘Nothing.’

Nick stared at him, his eyes bloodshot. He obviously hadn’t slept much. ‘You promised you wouldn’t, Gramps. You know it’ll upset her.’

‘I won’t. But you have to promise me something in return.’

‘What?’

‘Forget her. You need to concentrate on your exams. Then it won’t be long till you’re backpacking your way across the other side of the world.’

Nick blinked and ran his forearm across his eyes. ‘I can’t, Gramps,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I can’t … I love her.’

The major general smiled. ‘Everyone has that problem at your age. But you have to prioritise.’

‘You know she’s helping me with my English revision.’

Michael nodded. ‘Evie’s a great girl. But think about it. You won’t see her for nearly a year. Then, if everything goes to plan, you’ll be at Cambridge and she’ll be … where is it she’s going?’

‘Exeter.’

The major general laughed. ‘As far away as she can get from her crazy parents.’

‘That’s what she says.’ Nick looked up at him. ‘Why are the Favons like that?’

‘It’s a long story and one for another day. Come on. The fish will be harder to hook the higher the sun gets.’

‘Sorry, Gramps, I’m not coming.’ Then Nick Etherington, captain of rugby and cricket, head of house and governors’ prizewinner, pulled the covers over his head.

Joni got home in the late afternoon. She kicked off her boots and looked out at the birds in the garden behind the house. It had been an eighteenth-century merchant’s home, with tiny servants’ rooms in the attic and a dim basement with barred windows. Developers had bought the building when the last member of the family died ten years back and split it into six apartments. Joni’s was one of two on the first floor. It had a spacious living area, a reasonably sized bedroom, and functional kitchen and bathroom. Her mother had told her she could get a detached cottage where she lived further north for half the rent, but Joni didn’t listen. She needed to be in the town, even if it was tiny compared with London. The countryside still made her nervous.

A couple of female blackbirds were picking at the shared
lawn, tchook-tchooking as they went. She liked the birds. The females lacked the males’ show-off yellow beaks and the feathers, especially on their chests, were mottled brown. They were like her – less dark and seemingly disconnected from their male counterparts. Joni had never felt much in common with black people of either sex. She didn’t like black music of any kind, sticking resolutely to the classical recordings she had first heard on cassettes borrowed from the public library. She didn’t like black dance, black literature or black cooking. A friend at Oxford told her she was in denial about her racial heritage. Joni brushed that off. She was in touch with her white heritage and that was enough.

DCI Rutherford had told her to take the rest of the day off, almost marching her out of Force HQ when he left. She played along because she needed a shower and change of clothes. There was plenty she still had to do, not least since the injured Albanian had been cleared to talk by the doctors. Putting Brahms’s second symphony on as loud as was feasible – her neighbours above were retired doctors with the hearing of bats – she stood under the hot water for five minutes, before dousing herself with cold for another three. As usual, that concentrated her mind.

Morrie Sutton had got his warrant and gone off with DI Gray and a locksmith to open the safe in the basement of the Burwell Street brothel. Although none of the women had made a complaint, Joni had insisted social services have them examined by a doctor. No one was in any doubt that they’d been subjected to prolonged sexual abuse and their lack of possessions suggested they were hardly there by choice. Morrie hadn’t told her what had been found in the safe, saying only that he’d meet her at the hospital later. The man was a dick, but she had to work with him. At least Nick Etherington lived outside Corham and she’d been given responsibility for him, though re-interviewing him would have to wait until he finished school tomorrow.

As she dried herself, Joni thought of the Albanian women. She had gone to the hostel and spoken to them again, telling them to
stay there. They looked at each other, and exchanged sentences in their own language. Only two of them spoke Italian, saying the others came from Kosovo.

‘We will look after you,’ Joni said, even though she had no idea what social services and the UKBA would decide. ‘Don’t go back to the people who made you do that terrible work.’

There was more chatter in the language she couldn’t understand.

‘We have stay here?’ one of them asked, in Italian. She was thin and physically underdeveloped – a girl still. ‘We go?’

‘Not yet,’ Joni replied, with a sigh. Maybe moving the focus away from them would bear fruit. ‘The other woman. Is there nothing you can tell me about her?’

The thin girl translated for the others, one of whom spoke at some length.

‘OK, we say this. Her name Suzana. This woman here, she in room below. She many times hear screaming from woman. Much – how say? – banging on floor. She fight with man Leka.’

The others hissed at her. Joni looked as impassive as she could. It was the first time a male name had been mentioned.

‘He kept you in the house?’ she asked, her voice low.

‘Yes, Leka bad,’ her interlocutor said, ignoring the objections. ‘He … he hurt us, he beat us if not make men happy.’ She paused, staring at Joni. ‘This Suzana, she always fight. We … we frightened.’ She let out a sob.

Joni squeezed her knee, wondering if Leka was the dead man. The women had been given ill-fitting but clean clothes and the thin one was wearing faded jeans. ‘Listen to me. You never have to work for this man or his friends again. You are safe now.’

The young woman shook her head slowly. ‘We never safe. We work till old and ugly.’

Nothing more had been said, but Joni felt she’d established a link, albeit an indirect one, with the fugitive woman Suzana. If she’d found Joni’s card, they knew each other’s names. Suddenly they had become closer.

‘Where the fuck’s Gaz?’

‘Dunno, Kylie. He isn’t answering his phone.’

‘I fuckin’ know that, Pumpkinhead.’

‘I called his mother. She told me he wasn’t there and if I saw him to say she’s thrown out his sweaty footie kit.’

‘Jesus, he won’t like that.’

‘Then she told me to fuck off.’

‘Get that a lot, don’t you?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Ha ha. You call the others?’

‘Aye. Hot Rod was still asleep.’

‘Bet he told you to fuck off too.’

‘Aye. Jackie was shagging his lass. He told me to fuck off an’ all.’

‘What about Daryll?’

‘He didn’t tell me to fuck off.’

‘That must have been nice. Anything else?’

‘Nah. He was getting ready to go for a run.’

‘He’s too fucking healthy, that lad. So no one’s got a clue then?’

‘Including you.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘See you in the Grapes later?’

‘Aye. Gaz’ll probably turn up with some tart.’

‘Aye. Got any pills?’

‘I told you last night, those things’ll mess your head up even more.’

‘Aye. So have you?’

‘Aye.’

‘Good.’

‘Fuck off.’