Tell No Tales (42 page)

53

‘
HOW THE FUCK
did we miss this?’ Ferreira said.

Zigic grabbed the armrest as she stamped on the accelerator and shot past a line of cars, punching her horn when a white van moved to enter the lane ahead of her, forcing the driver to swerve back into line. He gestured out of the open window as they passed, his anger lost in their wake.

‘We should have checked him out more thoroughly,’ she said. ‘Christ, I knew Palmer was a piece of shit, but this?’

Zigic hadn’t believed it to begin with. Not when Ferreira suggested it in the translator’s office. Not when she showed him Palmer’s service file, ‘Huruk’ in the space for his mother’s maiden name. He couldn’t conceive of a third-generation Polish ex-copper, even one with Palmer’s dubious reputation, being capable of leading a neo-Nazi gang into a series of brutal murders, filming it and disseminating it, making those fire-and-brimstone hate speeches.

They’d taken Palmer’s photograph to Mazur, tucked among the employee IDs of ten other men, and waited for him to make his decision; he fastened on him instantly.

Palmer was the man who’d come to the house with Lukas Wrabowski and spent the evening getting drunk in his room, he was the man who had almost smashed the front door down looking for Pyotr Dymek on the morning of the hit-and-run.

And now, according to Grey Shield’s records, he was working a personal security detail for Richard Shotton. Something Ferreira had barely stopped talking about since they left the station.

‘He must know.’

‘I really doubt that, Mel.’

‘You don’t think it’s all part of the same thing?’

‘According to your friend at the unit Shotton was paying the ENL off to keep them in line. I’d say it’s pretty unlikely he’d do that then endorse multiple murder, don’t you?’

She gave a non-committal murmur.

‘He’s a politician.’

‘Not for much longer.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘Once this hits the press he’ll be dead in the water.’

‘It’s hardly going to look good for us either, is it?’

‘Palmer’s been out for years.’

‘He’s still an ex-cop.’

She slowed at the roundabout, then accelerated suddenly, the Golf’s GTI engine growling as she cut in front of an ambulance coming at speed from their right, sirens going, lights blazing, temporarily separating them from the patrol car which had trailed them all the way from Thorpe Wood.

It caught up fast, was on Ferreira’s bumper as she was forced to stop at the edge of Thornhaugh village, traffic-calming measures narrowing the road.

‘Do you think there are others?’ Ferreira asked.

‘In the gang?’

‘In the station.’

‘I hope not,’ Zigic said, thinking of the bad press this was going to cause, how much harder it would make their job. It was already near impossible to get people to trust them in the city’s immigrant communities. ‘We have to assume Palmer’s an anomaly.’

‘Long time since you’ve been in uniform.’

‘I know what they’re like,’ he said. ‘They mouth off, they hate everyone, but this thing goes way beyond knee-jerk bigotry.’

‘He learned it somewhere.’

They passed through the centre of the village, a nicer location than they were used to finding suspects in; stone and thatched cottages, horses in well-kept paddocks lined with long runs of new-built stable blocks where a few women were out for a morning ride. It was another world, impossibly remote from the dingy side streets where Palmer’s victims had died so violently.

Manor Farm was half a mile outside the village, set in gently rising countryside, grassland on two sides and behind it a stretch of sparse woodland, where a cluster of vehicles were parked up, their owners disturbing the air with volleys of shotgun fire. It was an impressively wide Georgian pile of a place, until you rounded the curve in the lane and saw that it was less than thirty feet through, the dressed stone frontage giving way to red bricks on the gable walls.

Ferreira turned into the driveway, a rough track patched with rubble here and there.

‘He’s not concerned with security, is he?’ she said, as they approached a set of high metal gates which stood open, letting them drive right up to the front door.

Evidently it hadn’t been a working farm for a long time. No machinery and no old outbuildings to house it, only a former cowshed recently converted into office space, with skylights cut into the slate and a long glazed wall looking across the gravel driveway.

A young man in heavy glasses and shirtsleeves rushed out of the office to meet them, casting a worried glance at the patrol car blocking the gate.

‘Is there some kind of problem?’

‘We’re looking for Christian Palmer,’ Ferreira said.

‘He isn’t here.’

Zigic nodded towards the Range Rover parked nearby. ‘Mr Shotton’s in though?’

‘I’ll deal with this, Marshall,’ Shotton said, appearing at the doorway.

‘They’re looking for Christian,’ Marshall said. ‘I told them he’s not here.’

‘Isn’t he?’

‘No, he called in sick first thing this morning.’

Shotton turned to Zigic. ‘What’s this about?’

‘We need to speak to Christian, as a matter of urgency. We believe he has vital information pertaining to our current investigation.’

‘And which investigation would that be?’

‘Christian’s part of a paramilitary neo-Nazi group,’ Ferreira said. ‘Or maybe you knew that much already.’

Shotton smiled stupidly, his disbelief genuine, Zigic thought, but the man was a politician, adept at hiding his true thoughts. He kept his eyes on Ferreira for a few seconds longer, as if she might shrug and laugh and say it was just a joke.

Shotton desperately needed it to be and when the reaction he wanted didn’t come he touched a nervous hand to his temple, brushed back his hair to try and hide the tremble.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Looking at Zigic now. ‘You must be mistaken. Christian is an ex-police constable. He came with impeccable credentials. I really can’t believe he’d be involved with something like that. Neo-Nazis? He isn’t the type.’

‘The White Brethren,’ Ferreira said, enjoying torturing him a bit too much. ‘They’re a pan-European terror group and Christian Palmer, your trusted bodyguard, is a very active member. More than a member, he’s one of their spiritual leaders.’ As she spoke the colour was rising in Shotton’s cheeks. ‘If you want to make a stand right now and defend him, by all means go ahead, but don’t expect it to end here.’

‘I have no intention of defending him,’ Shotton said, nerves giving way to anger. ‘And quite frankly I don’t care for your attitude, Sergeant.’

Zigic put out a placating hand. ‘We need to search your premises, Mr Shotton. We’d appreciate your cooperation.’

Marshall cleared his throat. ‘Surely it couldn’t –’

‘Alright,’ Shotton barked. ‘Look wherever you want, but Christian isn’t here. And the idea that I would shield him is frankly preposterous.’ He stabbed a finger in Zigic’s direction. ‘If I see any insinuation that the party was involved with this, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers and your Chief Constable.’

He stalked back into the office, shoulders squared with tension, and a moment later he appeared in one of the long windows, his phone pressed to his ear, watching with a grim expression as Ferreira led the uniforms into his HQ.

Zigic headed for the main house, gravel crunching underfoot, the sound of shotguns reverberating across the open fields, already feeling that this was a waste of time. Palmer’s car wasn’t here and he doubted Shotton or his assistant would cover for the man. He looked in the deep sash windows as he circled the house, saw rooms stuffed with too much old-fashioned furniture, a kitchen with a few herbs dying on the windowsill and a cat asleep near the range.

His mobile rang as he completed his circuit of the house – Wahlia.

‘Grieves has just called in from Palmer’s place –’

‘Is he there?’

‘No. His wife said he went out to work as usual this morning – she’s got no idea what he was up to by the sounds of it. She’s collapsed, totally lost it.’

‘We need to know if there’s anywhere else Palmer might have gone,’ Zigic said. ‘Family, friends, anything.’

‘Mother’s dead – no other family – and she reckons his only friends are a couple of Polish guys he knows through work. But they’re not close apparently.’

Zigic sighed. ‘Well, they won’t be much help to him now.’

‘Grieves found the room where he was filming the speeches though,’ Wahlia said. ‘It’s full of World War II memorabilia, uniforms, flags, God knows what else.’

‘What does Mrs Palmer think to that?’

‘He’s a history buff.’

Could she be that ignorant of her husband’s actions? Zigic wondered. It wasn’t an unusual interest but it was far from normal.

‘Alright. Look, if there’s anything else –’

‘I’ll call.’

Zigic slipped his phone away, thinking of Palmer leaving home this morning, kissing his wife, getting in the car, giving her no clue where he was going. What had stopped him coming into work? It was clearly planned – he’d called in sick.

But why now?

He’d been living a double life for months, maybe years, and was now going about his business with two deaths on his conscience, assuming he had one, three more murders he’d instigated and directed. He clearly wasn’t scared of being caught. He should have stopped after killing Dymek. All loose ends tied up. But he hadn’t stopped. The next day he’d led Lukas Wrabowski down Cromwell Road and watched him kick another young man to death.

Then he’d gone home, just as usual, and Monday morning he’d come to work.

What had changed since yesterday to make him drop off the radar?

There was only one explanation.

Zigic reached in through the open window of Ferreira’s car and punched the horn, bringing her out a couple of seconds later.

‘Come on,’ he said, moving round to the passenger door. ‘I think I know where Palmer is.’

54

THE BLOWN-OUT
window of the Polish Ex-Servicemen’s Club had been boarded over since last night, but the building bore traces of the fire, smoke stains fanned out across the brickwork, shreds of singed fabric snagged in the branches on the bushes in front of it. The main door was locked and sealed over with police tape which fluttered in the light breeze.

They’d parked along the street, not wanting to give Palmer advance warning of their arrival; Zigic and Ferreira leading, four uniforms with them, everyone in stab-proof vests just in case he’d armed himself. If he was hiding out it was for a reason and Zigic didn’t think he’d let himself be brought in without a fight.

The yard at the back of the building was covered with a sheet of water, bits of debris from an overturned bin floating on the rippled surface, crisp packets and fag ends and soggy receipts. They splashed through it, six pairs of feet making more noise than he would have liked, moving towards a service door standing slightly ajar.

Zigic pushed it open and led them into a narrow corridor, less water on the floor there, but the smell of smoke was thick in the air, and up ahead he picked out the door to the main bar, saw the paintwork bubbled from the intense heat which had blasted it, the brass handle blackened.

Above them the building creaked and cracked, but he didn’t have time to worry about structural integrity.

He directed two men upstairs to the second floor, another pair to the first and winced at how much noise they made as they went, boot heels thumping like a stampede.

‘We stay together,’ he told Ferreira.

She nodded, eyes wide in the gloom, holding her baton down by her side, fist tight around it.

They moved quickly through the ground-floor rooms; started with the burnt-out shell of the main bar, the furniture still sitting as he remembered it, but charred now, and brittle-looking, then into the lounge, which was perfectly untouched, curtains drawn, stools turned upside down on tables and a couple of fruit machines standing ominously unlit in the corner.

Overhead, doors were opening and closing, floorboards complaining.

They checked the kitchen and the storage cupboards, nothing much in them, the toilets and the long, bare function room at the back of the building, where the sprung floor amplified their footsteps. It was cold and still, a thick layer of dust on the plastic chairs stacked along one wall, felt like it hadn’t been used for years.

‘He’s not here,’ Ferreira said, voice barely above a whisper.

Zigic thought he caught a whiff of sweat on the air, but turned and followed her out again, pausing at a door marked ‘Staff Only’.

‘Must be the cellar.’ The door opened with a hard shove, a smell of damp and spilled beer rising from the darkness, a caustic hit of cleaning products. ‘Give me your torch.’

He took it from her and switched it on, aimed the beam down the worn stone steps, the light catching on crates of bottled drinks and aluminium beer barrels.

For a few seconds he just listened, holding his breath, straining to pick out some noise beyond his own hammering heartbeat. He could feel Ferreira at his back, hear her breathing, shallow and fast.

‘There’s nowhere to go, Palmer.’

His voice echoed dully into the cellar, answered by a dragging sound, something lightweight being slowly moved, followed by a strange tinkling, like pieces of broken glass showering the tiled floor.

‘The only way out of here is if you come peacefully.’

He swept the torch beam across the floor, wanting to identify Palmer’s position before they went down. The stairway was narrow though and the cellar extended for several yards on either side of it, plenty of space for Palmer to hunker down and wait for them, pick the perfect moment to strike.

‘We only want to talk to you.’

‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ Palmer said, voice low and distant. He sounded calm. Unnaturally so. ‘You know what I’ve done.’

‘Why don’t you come up here and we can talk about it properly?’

No answer. The sound of shuffling feet, muttering.

Ferreira gave him a questioning look, gestured towards the stairs, impatience drawing her closer to the top step, making her fingers flex around the baton’s moulded grip.