Carnal Acts (9 page)

Suzana had been waiting in the bushes outside the house for nearly two hours – she knew that from the chimes of the clock on a nearby church tower. It had been seven o’clock when she got there, flitting down the streets like a ghost and standing behind the equally spaced trees when people approached. There weren’t many as the evening was surprisingly cold. The houses were joined together in pairs but large, light flooding from front rooms with wide windows. People in nice clothes were watching television, eating, drinking – one elderly couple was dancing.
There were rich people’s cars parked on the street and in driveways, except by the house she had chosen. It showed no lights, apart from a small flashing one on a box between the first floor windows. Suzana had seen those on the clan leaders’ homes in Tirana while they were waiting to be flown to London. If she tried to get in, alarm bells would ring.

That didn’t put her off. She went down a passage at the side of the house in a crouch. There was a wooden gate, but she was agile enough to get over it in one bound. She found herself in a garden surrounded by trees and tall bushes, an expanse of grass in the middle. At the rear was a small building made of wood. She raised her eyes and checked the windows of the house. She had been hoping that someone might have forgotten to close one. She was out of luck. Everything was secure and there was another box with a flashing light on the rear wall. But at least there were no people around. The wooden outbuilding beyond the grass was her only hope. Did they keep chickens or rabbits there? She hoped they did – she would tear them apart with her bare hands, so great was her hunger. But she realised as she got closer that this was no animal shed.

She looked in the window. There was some light from the house next door and she made out a desk, a high-backed leather chair and, behind them, a low bed. There was also what looked like a small refrigerator. There were plastic boxes on shelves above it and – could it be true? – tins of food. Heart pounding, Suzana went to the door at the side of the building and examined the door. It was secured by a padlock. Again, she wished she’d had time to pull the knife from the pig’s belly. Dropping to her knees, she felt around for a stone or a piece of metal. This time she was lucky. Round the corner her hand fell on an old screwdriver. A minute later she was in the shed.

Or rather, in paradise. There was a tin opener on the shelf and soon she was gorging herself on fish and beans, gulping down cold soup, cramming biscuits from one of the plastic boxes into her mouth. She had no idea how long she ate for, but
eventually she sat back against the wall, panting. She closed her eyes and sleep took her, deep and drowning, into scenes from the last twenty-four hours – the soft stab of the fork in Leka’s back and the crashes as he went down the stairs, head bouncing against the floor and wall; the split-second of terror in the other man’s eyes before she planted the fork in his forehead; the feel of the last bastard’s chest against her head as she stuck him with the knife; then the screaming, her own and others’, the strange traffic-light person in the road, the slap of her bare feet on the asphalt, and the pounding of her pursuer’s boots.

Suzana woke with a start and took a few seconds to work out where she was. Remembering, she raised her head above the bottom of the window frame. There were still no lights in the house beyond the grass. The neighbours were having a party, music blaring and the lights brighter than they had been. It seemed she was still safe. She looked around the wooden hut. It was like no outhouse she had ever seen. The ones in her village had been basic, walls unplastered, floors earthen and windows without glass. This place was like a second home – but why have one so close to the larger building?

Opening the long drawer under the surface of the desk, Suzana found a laptop computer. It was of no use to her, she had never learned how to use the machines. Some of the men who paid for her had them in their bags. She considered stealing it, but didn’t want the trouble of finding a buyer – one who would remember the woman in ill-fitting clothes who couldn’t speak English. There was a small knife, its extending blade sheathed in a plastic holder. She took that. There was also a bag like those carried by the men in suits who fucked her. She filled it with as many tins of food and packets of biscuits as it would hold.

Suzana weighed up her options. She could risk staying here overnight – the bed, though only a flimsy thing, was inviting. Or she could wait until the party was over – she didn’t want to risk creeping back to the passage at the side of the house – and find somewhere safe to sleep under the stars. She swallowed a laugh.
When she was ten, her ambition had been to spend a summer night up on the mountain, looking at the stars until their patterns burned into her memory. When she asked her father, he had hit her with the back of his hand. It was not done for females of any age to sleep outside the family home and the guardianship of men. Now she found the prospect less inviting after shivering through the night before, shivering even in her brief dreams.

Then she saw the heavy garment hanging on the back of the door. She took it down and tried it on. It was thick and soft, a deep red colour, and it almost reached her feet. There was also a hat, a wide-brimmed leather thing that could have been worn by a cowboy. It would protect her from the rain that she had heard falling so often in this accursed place, even though it would make her stick out in a crowd. She found a plastic bag and stuffed it inside.

Then Suzana took off her trainers and unwrapped the makeshift bandages from her feet. The smell was bad. Fortunately there was some water in an electric kettle and she was able to bathe the wounds in a metal bowl. When she finished, exhaustion seized her and she stretched out on the bed. But she didn’t allow herself to sleep, determined not to be caught and see again the faces of the men who had forced themselves on her and kept her captive. Maybe all three were dead and, if she was taken by the police, she would spend the rest of her life in prison. She laughed bitterly. Leka’s friends would catch her first and her death would be drawn out and merciless. The same would happen in jail.

Much later, the lights went off in the house over the garden fence. Suzana put the tins and wrappers from the food she had consumed into a metal bin that reminded her of the one in her room in the house of slavery. Pushing the door shut after her, she made her way stealthily to the street beyond. It was quiet. Laden with bounty, she walked quickly away.

Heck Rutherford found Joni at Corham General. She was talking to the uniformed constable outside the Albanian’s room.

‘What the hell happened?’ he asked, after he’d led her down the corridor. ‘Morrie said you were almost strangled.’

‘With a catheter tube, would you believe?’ Joni gave him a crooked smile, but it was clear she’d been rattled. ‘I’ll survive.’ There was a line around her neck, but the skin hadn’t been broken. ‘But I stink like a urinal.’

‘Never thought of using mine to do that,’ he replied. ‘Though there was one ward sister…’

‘They have a way, don’t they?’ Joni said ruefully. ‘I had the riot act read to me about destroying hospital property and endangering a patient. As you can imagine, Morrie was a lot of help.’

‘Is he all right? The Albanian, I mean.’

‘Suddenly found his tongue, English-speaking version. After a lot of squealing – his wound reopened – he said I’d be hearing from his lawyer.’

‘Aye, right,’ Heck said, with a laugh. Then his expression changed. ‘I remember these slime bags when I was in Newcastle. They were beginning to move in and they weren’t afraid to use extreme violence. You’d better watch your back.’

Joni nodded. ‘They’re in London too. The problem is, they can’t be infiltrated. Everyone’s related and they only use outsiders for jobs they can’t handle – or don’t want to get fingered for.’

‘Come on,’ Heck said. ‘I’ve been stalling her, but you’ll have to report to the ACC. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she doesn’t steamroller you.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Joni said, under her breath. ‘Sir, what about the women? They should be told that one of the pimps is dead, as well as that Blerim Dost is unlikely to be a danger to them for several years.’

‘Ah,’ Heck said, stopping on the stairway. ‘I had a call from the hostel on the way in. They made a run for it.’

‘All of them?’

‘Afraid so.’ He put a hand on her arm, then removed it when he saw her expression. ‘There was only one staff member on duty and they were well away before a patrol car got there.’

Joni slapped the wall. ‘I knew it. We should have had people watching them.’

‘You heard what the ACC said about that.’ He risked a smile. ‘Maybe now she’ll see the error of her ways.’

‘And maybe she’ll be wearing a see-through top. Where is Morrie, anyway?’

‘He went back to the brothel. Now this is a murder case, the SOCOs are going over it much more carefully.’

‘What do you expect them to find?’

Heck shrugged. ‘If we’re lucky, fingerprints that are in the databases. Hairs, male bodily fluids that can be DNA-tested, fibres from clothing – it’s amazing the stuff they can pinpoint these days.’

‘But we know who the killer is – Suzana, the woman I ran after.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s likely she stabbed Dost, though none of the few witnesses Morrie’s has tracked down had a clear view. Her fingerprints will be on the knife if she did and they’ll obviously be in at least one of the rooms, not that we have any originals to compare with. But we don’t have any witnesses to the murder of Leka Asllani – he was at the bottom of the stair from the second floor, which suggests Suzana’s room was up there.’

Joni pushed the door on the ground floor open and held it for Heck. ‘No one’s seen the Albanian with the fork in his head, I suppose?’

‘No. He’s a problem.’

‘Because he’ll bring the heavy brigade over from Newcastle?’

He nodded. ‘Though Dost will also be alerting them via the lawyer. That third man – what’s his name?’

Joni looked at the list attached to the bag with Blerim Dost’s
passport. ‘Elez Zymberi. Not that he’ll be calling himself that now.’

Heck stopped by his car. ‘Doesn’t matter what identity he uses. He’ll be back to track down the woman who forked him, as Dickie so neatly put it. I suspect the disgrace of being bested by a member of the opposite sex is massive for them.’

‘Probably,’ she said, flexing her shoulder. ‘That means Dost will be putting out a contract on me.’

‘Yes,’ Heck said despondently. ‘It probably does.’

‘You swallowed those pills, didn’t you, Pumpkinhead?’ Kyle Laggan shook his head as his mate came back from the bog. ‘I fucking told you to wait till later.’

‘Away wi’ you,’ Daryll said, slamming down his empty pint glass. ‘The Grapes is a free house.’

‘Not if this pillock falls over in a trance.’

‘Lay off him, Kylie.’ Jackie had his arm round a girl whose name he hadn’t divulged. She looked totally out of it. ‘Who elected you president?’

Hot Rod guffawed. ‘President. Nice one. Whose round is it?’

‘Yours,’ Kyle said.

‘Aw reet, aw reet. I’m on ma way.’

‘Hot by name, hot not by nature,’ Kyle muttered. He looked round the table. ‘Where the fuck’s Gaz? He’s never missed a bank holiday session since we were bairns.’

‘Calm down, man,’ Daryll said. ‘He’ll be pigsticking some tart.’

‘Charming,’ said the nameless girl.

‘Yeah, mind your fucking gob, Daz,’ Jackie said, glaring at him.

‘Here you go,’ Hot Rod said, putting a tray on the table.

‘Newkie Nectar,’ Jackie said, putting the bottle to his girl’s lips.
She drank reluctantly. ‘What’s the matter, lass? Fancy something more sophisticated?’

‘Piss off.’

‘Charming,’ chanted all five males, before bursting into raucous laughter.

Kyle called Gaz’s mobile again. ‘Voicemail again,’ he said. ‘Yeah, Gaz! Answer your fucking messages, mon!’

There was a brief silence as they drank.

‘Maybe he’s gone fishing,’ suggested Pumpkinhead. ‘I ken he used to go wi’ his old man.’

Kyle snorted. ‘These days Gaz’s old man can’t lift his cock, never mind a fishing rod.’

‘But Gaz could still have gone off to one a’ they trout rivers by Rothbury,’ Pumpkinhead insisted.

‘He could have gone anywhere in the north-east,’ Hot Rod said. ‘I still think he’s with some lass. You know how they go for him.’

There was a bout of nodding.

‘Lucky bastard,’ Daryll said. ‘I wish I had a co—’

‘Shut it,’ Jackie interrupted, glancing at his girl. ‘I’m the one with the python around here.’

‘Oh aye?’ she said. ‘I was thinking adder meself. Baby adder.’

The outburst of hysteria that ensued led the long-suffering barman to consider barring the wankers, even though they were a major source of income.

Joni survived the meeting with Ruth Dickie, who was remarkably solicitous about her well-being. Afterwards Heck reminded her how important gender and racial minorities issues were to the ACC. Joni asked if officers could be detailed to look for the Albanian women around the town. That was denied – there was
insufficient personnel because of the bank holiday – though the ACC did agree that officers on patrol be apprised of the Albanians’ potential presence on the streets.

Which meant that Joni went home to change her urine-spattered clothes, had a shower and then started driving around Corham. She was sure the women would be bewildered by their surroundings, having probably never been allowed out by their captors. They also had no money, though it wouldn’t take them long to make some. She wondered if they knew to go to Newcastle to find other Albanians, or if they would try to get to London. Either way, it was likely they would be trying to hitch, probably having split up. She headed to the eastern edge of the town. The dual carriageway led to Newcastle in one direction and Carlisle in the other. Decelerating as she approached the last roundabout, Joni saw a shadowy figure in the twilight. It was one of them. She slowed down more, trying to keep her head back so she wasn’t recognised. The woman was one of those who spoke Italian, but she must have worked on roads before because she leaned down to inspect the driver before coming close. The instant she saw who it was, she turned away and dashed into the undergrowth. Joni got out and shone a torch around, but a planner had located a pinewood by the roundabout and she had little chance of finding anyone in the deepening gloom. She considered calling a patrol car, but decided against it. The women would go to ground the moment uniformed officers appeared. Short of driving around the vicinity all night, there was little Joni could do. The last thing she wanted was to persecute the Albanian women. She would try to find some other way of helping them.

Back at her flat, she did half an hour of yoga. Then she prepared herself a vegetable stir-fry. She had given up meat and fish when she was thirteen, much to her mother’s amusement. Moonbeam rarely cooked, preferring to be taken out by the men she was involved with, so Joni had taught herself how to make nourishing meals. After eating, she sat on the sofa with a cup
of mint tea and tried to get her thoughts in order. It had been a strange day, and not only because someone had tried to kill her. The fact that she’d been able to overcome the fear of opening her wounds by throwing Blerim Dost was reassuring. The tackle that she’d made on Nick Etherington had been the first step, although her unwillingness to follow the runaway Suzana over the high gate had seemed to neutralise that progress. That reminded her. She needed to speak to Nick’s mother in the morning to find out when he’d be home from school. He had definitely seen more outside the brothel than he admitted in interview.

Joni thought back to the conversation she’d had with the Albanian women. It was the first time she’d spoken Italian since she moved north. She could have gone to Newcastle at weekends easily enough. For some reason that didn’t appeal, as if, having decided to move out of the big city, she didn’t want to be drawn back into another one on her days off. She also hated shops, multi-storey car parks and pubs full of screaming pissheads. Heck and the others had told her Newcastle was well stocked with all of those. Corham was enough for her now, and she kept up her languages by reading French and Italian newspapers and criminology articles, and listening to news broadcasts on the internet.

She had a sudden flash of Aurelio Moretti, with the harbour at Bari in the background. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, dark hair running back in waves from his perfectly proportioned face, full lips revealing gleaming white teeth. She had been twenty-one when she went to Italy for the first time, for a teaching job arranged for her by the university during her year abroad. Aurelio was a games master at the same school and she fell for him the day she started work.

‘Hey, beautiful brown lady, you want come for coffee?’

His English had made her laugh and she replied in Italian that was fluent though lacking any regional inflection. They ended up in bed that night. He wasn’t her first lover. Having avoided sex completely when she was at school, she had slept with three
men and one woman in her first two years at Oxford, but had never been satisfied. Aurelio did things to her body she had never imagined. She didn’t even mind that he was married. He gave her the standard story about his wife not understanding him. A functioning feminist at the time, Joni knew she should have planted a knee between his legs, but she couldn’t resist him. He was mad about cars and started her off on the tinkering with machines that she still did in her spare time. They were together until the day she left Bari to take up her next teaching job in Marseilles. He had begged her to stay, told her he would follow her, cried as she boarded the train. She still had the charm bracelet he had given her, but she never wore it. Not my style, she would tell herself. Maybe if he’d come to France she’d have put it on. But he never showed up, never wrote apart from one card declaring his love. She hadn’t replied, seeing that her future was different and elsewhere, even if she didn’t yet know the details.

And now she was reduced to using the language of love – not just of Dante and Petrarch, but of her stunning Puglian man – to question sex slaves and their pimps. The starkness of the situation almost made her weep, but she pulled herself together. At least there were no French gangsters in Corham, probably not even in Newcastle or Sunderland. She could keep that language for memories of love. In Marseilles, she’d been an instant hit with the teenagers in the run-down suburb where she was posted. She argued with the headmaster for more time with her pupils and eventually he agreed. Julien Sorel was divorced, bald and as different from Aurelio as it was possible for a man to be. He didn’t even like bouillabaisse, but he was an intellectual and a kindly lover. Without him she would never have borne the harshness of the kids caused by the society they were forced to grow up in. Many were from immigrant or mixed-race families.

Looking back, Joni saw that her decision to join the police was rooted in the squalid streets of Marseilles, where drugs were king and prostitution queen, as much as it was in her Hackney
childhood. She had lost touch with Julien soon after her return to Oxford. One of the other teachers sent her a note a few months later, saying he’d been killed by a hit-and-run driver after he had stormed into a café that sold drugs to teenagers.

That had made her even more determined to right society’s wrongs.