The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) (13 page)

“So, D.C.I. Cullen.”

“Liam.”

She smiled as if she liked him and Liam flattered himself that she did.

“Liam. This has been a fascinating chat but we should probably discuss why you’re here.”

He glanced at his watch, surprised. Two hours gabbing was a lot, even for him. He lifted his notebook from the desk, opening it at a page near the back.

“I can’t tell you why I need to know this yet, but can you to look at this phrase and tell me if you recognise it.”

She took the small notebook and scrutinised the page, bringing it closer as if it would somehow get the words to make sense. After two minutes staring and frowning she shrugged defeat.

“I’m sorry but I haven’t the foggiest idea. It’s Latin of some description but what it means is anyone’s guess. Something to do with confession perhaps?”

Liam was disappointed. He’d guessed at confession as well, but then so had the rest of the team. He was certain that the words meant something more.

“Don’t worry, that’s not the main reason I came.” He stood up. “But until I have the translation I can’t really ask you the rest.” He headed for the door. “I’ll come back when I know what it means. Probably tomorrow; I’ll call as soon as I know.”

He walked down the stairs thinking. He hadn’t expected Theodora Rustin to translate the tattoo for him, he already had someone else in mind for that, but he was certain now that she could help with the words’ relevance once he knew what they meant. He would definitely be back.

****

If the terraced house off Belfast’s Ormeau Road had seen better days it had been several decades before. Neglect and decay had layered themselves alternately on the structure, peeling off its paintwork and stripping shards of wood from the old fashioned windows and doors. They’d crept like damp through the stonework, splitting it so badly that the only way to improve the place would have been to knock it down. The house was a mess. Feral cats would have refused to live there yet the computer said that it was still someone’s home.

Annette checked the address again then signalled Ken to knock on the front door’s cracked glass. Knock because there was no bell, but knock gently in case the cracks should spread and cave in what was left of the thin pane. Ken picked the least vulnerable spot and tapped on it twice. When no-one came and nothing shifted he risked knocking again, slightly harder this time. A faint rustling in the hallway said that someone was definitely at home; the rheumy eye appearing through the glass said that it was someone old.

“Go away.”

The words were said in a heavy European accent, telling them they were in the right place.

“It’s the police, Mr Boraks. We need to talk to you.”

The eye widened in alarm and then withdrew.

“No police. I do nothing.”

Annette’s heart sank; he was afraid of them. His age meant he’d probably experienced wartime Europe and the overzealous policing methods used.

She moved closer to the glass. “You’re not in trouble, Mr Boraks.” Not unless we find out that you caused your daughter’s death. “We just need to talk to you about Elena.”

The eye’s retreat ceased abruptly and “Elena done nothing wrong, neither,” rang through the door.

Annette’s heart ached at the words. He was defending a dead girl and he didn’t know it, and it was her sad task to make certain that he did.

She nodded Ken to knock again as she said, “Elena’s not in trouble. Please let us in.” She repeated the words until the eye had come close enough to reveal two and the old man’s breath misted the cracked glass. After a moment of sizing them up he turned a key then stepped back quickly as if he was still afraid. Ken shook his head; what sort of life had this man suffered that had made him so frightened, and was he frightened of everyone or just of them?

As the door opened inwards to reveal a long, dark hallway, painted in colours that said it was the ’70s since they’d last been refreshed, they had their first full view of Tomasz Boraks. He was younger than Annette had first thought, nearer seventy than the ninety his rheumy eyes had suggested, but as thin and pale as a ninety-year-old might be. His skin had the yellow pallor of the olive skinned who never saw the sun and his scrawny frame the look of someone underfed for years.

As he led the way into a dimly lit back room, Annette’s brain was whirring with things that they could do to improve his life. He must be entitled to some benefits: heat and light at least, but as soon as the ideas were born they died; crushed beneath her certainty that Boraks would reject any offer of help. Everything about the man said that he was defeated, from his sloping shoulders to his dirty hair and clothes. He’d stopped helping himself a long time before so why would he accept any aid from them? If he was responsible for his child’s abuse perhaps he wasn’t worth their sympathy.

She was pulled from her thoughts by Ken’s curious glance and she saw that they were standing in a small room without chairs. It felt awkward. It was hard to deliver bad news standing in the centre of a room, but she did, or at least she opened the elderly father up to the idea.

“Mr Boraks, can you confirm you have a daughter called Elena?”

Boraks squinted at her suspiciously, as if even the admission of their relationship could cause trouble in his daughter’s life. She tried a different approach.

“You admit that you know someone called Elena Boraks?”

A slight nod said that he did.

“Do you know if she has any family in Belfast?”

It was tantamount to asking if he was that family but without the directness that had made him withdraw before.

Another nod, and something else; a small smile tilting the edge of his lips. Pride. He was proud of the girl. But was it paternal pride that could survive a shock like finding out his daughter was a prostitute, or did he believe that Elena held some other job? What had she told him? What did he know? They were in a minefield, trying to avoid blowing up a father’s life.

“You are Elena Boraks’ family, isn’t that correct?”

He spoke for the first time face to face. “I am father.”

Good. They had confirmation of that much.

“Can you tell us about her? Where does she work?”

The old man turned suddenly towards what looked like a pile of junk. As Annette peered through the dimness she realised that the junk concealed a mantelpiece. He turned back, in his hand a picture frame that had seen better days. It held the image of a girl around ten years old.

“This is my Elena. She work in shop.”

Annette took the photograph politely and studied the young girl’s face; it was round and freckled, with a healthy glow later stolen by drugs. She felt sadder than she had in a long time: sad for the loss of innocence, sad for the waste of a young life, and sadder still that the father in front of her seemed to know nothing of what was coming next. After a moment she handed the photo to Ken and asked another question.

“Which shop does she work in, Mr Boraks?”

Her use of the present tense made Ken stare, but what option did she have? One ‘did’ or ‘was’ would tell this father that his child was dead and until he’d identified her body they couldn’t, shouldn’t say that for sure. Boraks’ reply said he had no idea what she was thinking.

“SuperMark. On Ormeau Road.”

Annette made a show of writing it in her notebook and continued.

“And when did you last see her?”

The proud smile reappeared.

“She bring me food beginning of every month.”

Almost four weeks earlier. Suddenly Boraks exited the room, beckoning them to follow. At the end of the hallway was a door they hadn’t noticed and he pushed it open to reveal a small but surprisingly clean kitchen. A trunk freezer sat against one wall and the pensioner yanked at the lid with a strength that he didn’t look like he possessed. Inside were enough provisions for weeks.

“Elena get these from shop and bring.”

Annette would have been surprised if Elena had been working in any shop, but wherever she’d been working she’d loved her father enough to make sure he was well fed. Perhaps he hadn’t been her abuser.

She smiled and nodded as if he was right to be proud and then indicated some chairs set around a small table. The elderly man remembered his manners and pulled back a chair for her. “Please sit.” As the men joined her Annette restarted the conversation.

“Do you see Elena at other times of the month?”

Boraks was animated now and nodded excitedly. “She come Monday to take washing and bring to me my pension.” His face dropped. “But not this week.”

Annette’s voice was soft. “Last week perhaps?”

She was answered by a shake of the head.

“She last come start of month. With food.”

The second of March. The last time he’d seen his daughter had been twenty-five days before.

His pale eyes lit up. “I think she meet someone. Perhaps she will get married soon.”

His faraway gaze said that he was picturing the happy day and Annette averted her eyes as they filled with tears. Ken intervened quickly.

“Did Elena call you in the past few weeks, Mr Boraks?”

The old man’s gaze shifted to Ken and changed from happy to puzzled as he shook his head. Ken tried again.

“Do you remember the very last date you talked, either in person or on the phone?”

Annette listened as he tried to narrow down the last time they’d spoken, but Boraks shook his head in agitation, not liking the direction the conversation was beginning to take.

“I say. Monday. Start of month. She came with food, clean clothes.”

He hadn’t spoken to his daughter in almost four weeks, so where the heck had she been since then? Ken paused, not wanting to upset him any further and Annette gathered herself to take over, her tone solemn.

“I’m sorry, Mr Boraks, but we think something may have happened to your daughter. I’d like you to come with us.”

Boraks’ eyes widened as they had at the front door and his voice took on a frantic edge. “Where is my Elena? What have you done to her?”

He went to rise but Ken placed a hand on his arm and fixed his gaze. “We haven’t done anything to harm your daughter, Mr Boraks, but we think that you can help us. Will you do that, please? For Elena’s sake?”

Whether it was Ken’s quiet authority or his firm grip, something calmed the old man down. Annette watched as his expression shifted from frantic to passive, then to realisation dawning at the speed of light. They continued watching as his eyes squeezed shut and hot tears began streaming down his wrinkled cheeks. His daughter was dead and he knew it without either of them actually saying the word.

As they drove to the morgue no-one needed to say where they were going or what they would find when they arrived, and Annette wondered sadly how long it would take Tomasz Boraks to follow his only child into the grave. Ken glanced grimly at her from the passenger seat and she knew exactly what he was thinking; for the man in the back seat’s sake thank God she hadn’t let Carmen break the news.

****

It took ten minutes for T.J. McDonagh to stop hyperventilating and several hot drinks for Jake to calm him down for their visit to the mortuary. As he did so Andy stood at the bar surveying his surroundings, deciding that the place might be worth visiting on an evening off. With talent this good mid-afternoon, night-time was bound to bring out the real lookers, and cocktails would definitely improve his chances; he found he went up in women’s estimation once they’d had a few drinks. He beckoned Jake across.

“Is he ready to see the body, then?”

Jake winced at the volume of his voice and indicated him to pipe down.

“A bit of tact wouldn’t go amiss…sir.”

As he added the appellation he wondered how the hell Angel had ever reached D.C.I. rank. Even Liam wouldn’t be callous in front of a relative. Andy raised an eyebrow in warning then decided to let the jibe pass; he had better things to waste his precious energy on than a cheeky subordinate. He repeated his question.

“Is he ready?”

Jake nodded and went to return to T.J. but Andy’s next question stopped him in his tracks.

“How often are brothers gay?”

Jake wasn’t taken aback by the question’s subject matter as much as the location the D.C.I. had chosen to ask it in. He answered, gazing out at St Anne’s Cathedral for patience as he did.

“Anecdotally, I couldn’t say; I’ve never encountered it until now. Some studies quote the likelihood of a man being gay when his sibling is as four times higher than average, but others say that’s rubbish, so who knows.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, waiting for homophobia to rear its ugly head. The lecherous D.C.I. seemed a likely candidate. He was proved wrong by Angel’s next comment.

“We’d better give him protection. If his brother was killed for being gay that must put him at risk as well.”

It might have done, although whether the risk was any higher than for other gay men was open to conjecture. Still, it showed a more caring side to Angel than Jake had expected so he nodded in acknowledgement before he turned back towards the booth.