On Laughton Moor (14 page)

24

Back in the car, statements from Jodie Kent and her partner who had been asleep upstairs taken, Bishop unfolded the paper again. There were ten postcodes written neatly in blue biro; six were Lincolnshire area codes, the rest further afield.

  ‘How much do you bet that one of these is Milica Zukic’s brothel?’

  ‘I should think it’s almost definite. Question is, which one?’

  ‘Only one way to find out. I’ll give DI Knight a call. Do you fancy some more driving?’

Starting the engine, Varcoe pulled a face.

  ‘Not much choice, Sarge, we’re about sixty miles from home.’

   ‘Don’t be facetious, Anna, it doesn’t suit you.’ Bishop grinned, rummaging in her bag for her phone. ‘Hello, sir, how was the press conference?’ She couldn’t help but smile as Knight filled her in on the grilling Stringer and Kendrick had endured, then told him about the postcodes given to them by Jodie Kent, and the name she had given them – Dave. Another popular one for Kendrick to moan about. ‘What do you want us to do? We’re just leaving Leeds, we could have a look at the Lincoln address on the way back to the station, or shall we leave it?’

Knight pondered for a few seconds before agreeing it was a good idea to see what they could find out that evening.

  ‘Drop Claire in Intel an email too,’ Knight said, tinnily. ‘See what she can dig up tomorrow.’

  ‘Put your foot down, Anna.’ said Bishop settling back into her seat. She should have driven, she reflected, it would have kept her mind busier. She glanced in the wing mirror, studying the car behind them.
Paranoid
, she thought. She welcomed the chance to contact Claire again, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush on a pop star as she thought about it.
Idiot.

  ‘Shouldn’t Milica Zukic visit this place with us?’

  ‘She probably will eventually. Let’s see them ourselves first. We don’t know one of these places was where she was held, and even it was, chances are it’ll be empty. As DI Knight keeps saying, the person who killed Pollard and Kent may have no involvement with the gang that kept Milica prisoner.’

  ‘We know Pollard spent just about every penny he had, Sarge – what if he was a punter at this place?’

Bishop frowned, thinking.

  ‘Milica Zukic did say some of the girls seemed younger than her sister, who was only seventeen, and we know from Mike Pollard that Craig was keen on girls who were just legal – who’s to say his tastes didn’t run to even younger?’

Varcoe grimaced, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first, Sarge.’

  ‘Let me speak to the DI again.’

  Knight was wandering around the incident room, looking lost. DS Cuthbert watched him, muttering to PC Lawrence:

  ‘Do you think he even knows where he is?’

The constable smiled warily.

  ‘He must have done something right to be a DI.’ she pointed out.

Cuthbert snorted.

  ‘Maybe they were desperate, or having a two for one offer or something.’

Knight glanced in their direction, then moved away. PC Lawrence looked worried.

  ‘You don’t think he heard, do you?’

  ‘Do you care?’

  ‘Of course I care, I don’t want to be a constable all my life.’

  ‘I don’t think cosying up to DI Knight will do your chances of promotion any good, if I’m honest. He’s not set the world on fire since he’s been here, has he?’

  ‘He must have seen all sorts in the Met though.’

  ‘Seen it, yes, but solved it? We don’t know about that, do we? We know nothing about him, proper mystery man.’

  ‘I’m not getting involved in slagging him off, anyway.’ The PC turned away, and Cuthbert moved off, scowling. Knight was now standing face to the wall, mumbling into his mobile phone. Cuthbert rolled his eyes, went back to the whiteboards.

  ‘I’ve got a couple of people running the same checks on the name Dave that we ran on Steve and Nick, we’ll see if that gets us anywhere. Pollard’s parents and brother are being contacted too, see if they remember anyone called Dave. He could be our mystery caller, but he could be our killer too, we need to remember that.’ Knight said.

  ‘Yes, sir. What do you think of DC Varcoe’s suggestion, that Pollard could have been a paying customer as well as perving around town?’ Bishop’s voice echoed in Knight’s ear.

  ‘I can’t hear you very well. We can show his photo to Milica Zukic, unless you did that earlier?’

Bishop admitted she hadn’t thought of it.

  ‘I’m not sure if our interpreter is still here, probably not, even without him I’m sure Miss Zukic will understand what we want her to do if I show her the photo. Did you get an up to date shot of Steven Kent from his sister?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘Okay, good. I’ll see you back here.’

Knight disappeared into the corridor.

  ‘Off to save the world.’ muttered Cuthbert.

25

Milica Zukic stared up at the ceiling of the cell she’d now been lying in for about seven hours, save looking at the photographs with Bishop and Doctor Whelan. Whelan was pleasant, reassuring. He’d told her the police meant her no harm, that the only reason she was in a cell was for her own protection. Could she believe that? Did she have any reason to trust the police? No, but then she had no real reason to distrust them either. She shivered, shuffling on the bunk. The sweatshirt she’d been provided with wasn’t very thick, and she needed to shower and wash her hair. She thought about her parents in Serbia worrying about her and hoped her uncle had told them she was safe. She’d been stupid to believe her uncle, should have known what he said was too good to be true, but he was family, and if you couldn’t trust your family . . . She worried that her sister had suffered the same fate, that even now she was locked in a house somewhere in Britain – a living hell. Compared to the other girls in that house and many others like it, Milica knew she had been lucky. She shivered again, wrapping her arms around her body.

The cell door opened, and Milica shrank back into the corner where her bunk met the wall. A man entered the cell smiling, his eyes kind. She recognised him as the inspector who had spoken to her earlier. He held a tray of food which he offered to her, sandwiches, a banana, cake and a bottle of orange juice. She smiled gratefully and took the tray. He had a sheaf of papers under his arm, and studied them while she ate. Milica felt she could trust this man, she couldn’t have said why, but she was sure of it and she felt her body relax. Her meal finished, she placed the plates, banana skin and empty bottle tidily on the tray and looked expectantly at Knight. He stepped forward, offered her a sheet of paper, which she took and studied. It was another of their photographs, a man of a similar age to herself. She considered. Had she seen him before? No. Never. Shaking her head apologetically, she handed the sheet back to Knight.

  ‘Sorry.’ she said, smiling hesitantly. He smiled back, shrugging.

  ‘Thank you for trying.’ he said. Milica, understanding thank you, shook her head, meaning
It was nothing
. She wanted to ask him what would happen now, where would she go, if she was to stay here could she wash or at least have a blanket, but she didn’t have the words and she felt stupid and inadequate. Knight beckoned to her with his hand, and she got warily to her feet. He opened the cell door wide and in the corridor stood a uniformed police officer, female, young, smiling pleasantly at Zukic, who looked at Knight questioningly.

  ‘You go with PC Roberts.’ said Knight, using a few more hand gestures. Zukic understood the gist of what he was saying.

PC Roberts pointed at herself and said ‘Natalie.’

Milica smiled in understanding, made the same gesture and said ‘Milica.’ Smiling broadly now, the two women shook hands. Knight walked quietly away.

Bishop and Varcoe sat squinting through the darkness at a row of dilapidated terrace houses, car engine idling.

  ‘That’s number twelve, green door.’ Bishop said, slouching lower in her seat as a scrawny man lurched unsteadily down the pavement. She tensed, but he passed them without a glance.

  ‘Weird how it looks just the same as all the other houses, but then I don’t suppose they’d want to advertise what was going on inside.’ Anna said, rubbing her hands together.

  ‘People must have some idea though, surely?’

  ‘You would think so, but then, as we know, people are good at turning a blind eye to things they don’t want to get involved with.’

  ‘True. Come on, let’s get out of here. I think we have to say this is a possibility, but we need Milica Zukic to confirm it. It could be perfectly innocent, just a place Kent had to bring an everyday parcel to, but . . . I don’t know.’

Varcoe glanced over her shoulder and accelerated away from the kerb.

  ‘No signs of life anyway. No lights on, no queue of punters in the front garden.’

  ‘Do you call that a garden? Looked like the local tip to me. We’ll see what we can find out about the place when we’re back at the station. It’s bloody freezing and I’m dying for a warm drink.’

As Varcoe concentrated on finding the way through the warren of identical streets, Bishop typed a text
:
Sorry, will b 2 late talk tomorrow C
x
  Louise might not be happy, but she couldn’t worry about that now.

Sitting at the table in the conference room, Bishop wrapped her hands around a mug of tea, savouring the heat defrosting her fingers. Knight looked exhausted, and Bishop was sure her appearance wasn’t much better. Varcoe had gone to check up on the house they’d just visited, hoping to discover who owned it but at this time of night her best chance would probably be to wait until the morning, as Bishop had said. Anna wanted to have a quick look before she went home, committed as ever. Kendrick arrived, also tired eyed, and  in need of a shave.

  ‘Okay, let’s make it quick, I think it’s time we were all at home.’ Keith Kendrick said. ‘What do we have?’

He seemed satisfied with the progress they’d made for once, and they agreed to meet again first thing to discuss the actions for the following day. Varcoe had stuck her head around the door at one point, said she’d not managed to find anything but would get back onto it first thing. As they made their way to the car park, Bishop said hesitantly:

  ‘I hope you won’t mind if I stay with you again, sir?’

  ‘You know I don’t mind. Let’s get out of here, shall we?’ Knight hurried towards his car, head down against the cold wind. Bishop followed suit, hands jammed into her coat pockets. There had been no wind when they’d arrived back at the station forty minutes before, winter was definitely setting in.
Lucky I’m not the superstitious type,
thought Bishop, rooting through her bag for her car keys. Why did she never think to have them ready in her hand as she left  the station? Neither Knight nor Bishop saw the figure huddled in the bus shelter across the street.

26

Dave Bowles turned off the television, stomach churning, breathless. His throat was choked, he tried to swallow, couldn’t. Steve Kent was dead. Steve Kent, who he’d spoken to a few days ago, who had warned him not to go to the police, not to speak to them again, who had insisted all was well, was dead. Bowles’ hands were twisted together, held up to his face, pressing against his pursed lips. He stood up then sat again, forcing his hands to unclench. Not only was Kent dead, he’d been killed in the same way as Craig Pollard and to Bowles that could only mean that he had been right all along, and Kent had been wrong. Twelve years after the event, the boy now a man and hunting them all, taking revenge. Bowles unconsciously made a sound, something between a moan and a whimper. He could be next. Only himself and Nick were left. He would have to find Nick, he didn’t know what else to do. He daren’t ring the police again, not now. All his fears, the years of worry and torment but he had never imagined this. He had thought the police might come for him one day but never this, not the murder of the four of them, one by one. It was barbaric, some form of personal, primitive justice, and he wasn’t willing to leave himself at risk. He could go to the police, of course, tell them all he knew and hope for mercy, for understanding, but he daren’t risk that. He would try to find Nick. He knew where Nick’s parents used to live, maybe they still did.  It was a start. He hurried to his bedroom, grabbed his rucksack from the wardrobe, blindly threw clean boxer shorts, a couple of T shirts and a few pairs of socks into it. He knew he was panicking, not thinking straight. It was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn’t stand the thought of staying here waiting for his own death, seeing the face of the boy at last. He’d never been a fighter and knew a man that could kill Pollard and Kent without being caught would overpower him easily. He’d always been the smallest. Bowles slammed the door behind him and ran down the stairs. His only hope was to get out of here.