by Scott Hunter
“Where’d you get that, guv?” McConnell’s face was a picture of bewilderment.
“Inside a motorcycle pannier I happened to come across at the seaside.” Moran put the form carefully back in his trouser pocket. “Lucky I checked, eh? Oh, and another thing.” He produced a mobile phone, wrapped in a clear plastic bag, from the same pocket. “You any good with these, Bola? Someone told me you were a bit of a dabbler.”
“Sure.” Bola frowned. “What’s the problem with it?”
“No problem, it’s just that there don’t appear to be any viewable text messages. Unusual – but then again, we’re dealing with unusual folk here, are we not?”
George whistled. “The chink’s iPhone? The entire spook community will be looking for that, guv.”
Moran held up his hand. “Please, George. No disparaging racial slang.”
McConnell mumbled an apology but couldn’t resist a further objection. “There’ll be an enquiry into this, guv. They’ll throw the book at you.”
“Only if they know we have it, George.” Moran smiled. It felt odd to do so, as if he were trying to remember some long-lost form of expression. “And I’m betting it won’t take DC Odunsi here very long to find anything worth finding.”
“I’m on it, guv.” Bola grinned, the grin of a man who knew which side he was on.
Chapter 38
“Bit nondescript, isn’t it?”
Moran had to agree. Poole wasn’t really his cup of tea – or maybe it was just that he’d had enough of the seaside for the time being. “I think it’s more picturesque by the harbour. But not a bad place to hide, Toby, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yep. There must be hundreds of B and Bs in the area.”
Moran shuffled the pages of McConnell’s report and grudgingly conceded that the little Scot had gone some way to making up for his lock-in misdemeanour. He’d asked George to do a little digging into Gosia Marenkovich’s background, and what had come out was most revealing. He was also pretty au fait by now with Andreas Pashkov’s field of expertise, which ranged from specialist communications systems to the supervision of industrialised torture and murder. Pashkov probably wasn’t his real name, though, any more than Gosia Marenkovich was the real name of Charlie’s other erstwhile flatmate. As Toby followed signs to the ferry Moran found himself wondering if Andreas was as diligent an ID checker as he was a killer. For his sake, Moran hoped so, but then Moran wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.
And talking of sleep, Moran felt a lot better in himself. He’d managed two nights of five hours apiece and had been able to put the previous week’s events into some kind of manageable perspective. However, he knew from past experience that certain scenes from his time in Cernham would not be shaken off easily, especially during the wee small hours. But that was for later. Today was all about closure, if not of the entire Huang Xian Kuai operation, then at least of Thames Valley Constabulary’s sideshow role, which had been heralded the previous summer by the sudden disappearance of an undercover policewoman.
And which, I hope, will end here…
“Second largest after Sydney.” Toby interrupted his thoughts.
“Pardon me?”
“Poole is a natural harbour, guv. Only bigger one is Sydney.”
“Well, I’ll be blowed.”
“Lovely beaches, too. The St Tropez of the south coast. That’s what they call it.”
“Whoever ‘they’ are.”
Toby grinned. “Yeah. Ah – there it is. The Thistle Hotel, right?”
“That’s what Bola came up with.”
“Once a geek…”
Moran guffawed. “The thing about technology is you can never be sure that ‘deleted’ really means ‘deleted’. Fortunately for us.”
Toby backed the car into a tight parking space with the ease of long experience. As he killed the engine he paused, a slight trace of concern passing across his face. “You’re not expecting this to be a heavy scene, are you, guv?”
Perhaps Toby was thinking of Tess Martin, recovering in hospital – or Charlie, traumatised and resting up in Coventry with an as yet unknown disciplinary hanging over her. Or maybe Banner, whose funeral they would all attend the following day. Perhaps he just needed reassurance that they weren’t about to become another statistic in Huang’s international game of brutality.
Moran studied his shoes for a moment, wanting to compose a helpful reply but caught nevertheless in a moment of self doubt. What if he was wrong? What if he’d misread the information, failed to take some critical but unknown factor into account?
At last he turned to Toby, who, in that moment of vulnerability, looked younger than his twenty-five years.
“No, Toby. No, I’m not.”
Toby’s eyes brightened. “That’s good enough for me, guv. Let’s do it.”
“Well, they did ask not to be disturbed.” The receptionist looked visibly taken aback as Moran produced his ID.
“They, or her?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Moran saw Toby cock his head at the question. As did the receptionist.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“Did they both ask? Together, I mean. Or did the girl come down later by herself?”
“I don’t know. I’ll have to check.”
She bustled into the back office, clearly put out by the stupidity and pointlessness of the question.
As they waited for the receptionist to return, Moran’s mobile buzzed.
“Moran.”
“Guv?”
Bola. “Go ahead, Bola. What’s up?”
“Had a call from Devon – a DS Wilmot? Wants you to call him urgently.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
Moran caught the momentary hesitation at the other end. “They have an issue. About the guy you wounded.”
“Oh? What, exactly?”
“They can’t trace him. And the weird thing is, Lady Cernham and her son – er, stepson…”
“Matt ‘Harrison’?”
“Right. The thing is, guv, they both deny that this guy exists.”
“They what?”
Bola’s voice grew more animated. “I don’t mean, like, they say he never existed, guv. Just that he’s been, well–”
“Come on. Out with it.”
“That he’s been dead for nearly eighteen years.”
Moran shook his head in bemusement. Toby was reading the snack bar menu and examining local taxi cards on the reception desk. “Tell Wilmot I’ll get back to him as soon as I can.”
“OK, guv. But he’s got his guv’nor breathing down his neck, you know. They’ll want a proper statement.”
“Another statement? I’ve given them chapter and verse already.”
“Sure. Sorry, guv. Don’t shoot the messenger, you know? How’s it going, anyway?”
“I’ll tell you when we have something, Bola. Don’t worry.”
Moran signed off and a moment later the receptionist returned. “Just the girl, as you said,” she reported peevishly. “Although I don’t see–”
“Thanks,” Moran said. He consulted his watch. “Nearly ferry time.” He returned his attention to the receptionist. “Anyone booked a taxi to the ferry this morning?”
“Of course. It’s a ten-minute run to the ferry port. Lots of people book a taxi for this time of day. They’re starting to arrive now, if you look outside. But Mr and Mrs Wachowski aren’t due to check out today, so I don’t see why they would want a taxi to the ferry.”
Moran waited for her to suffix her statement with ‘stupid’, but she allowed her body language to do the talking.
“Good. Well, we’ll take a seat, shall we, Detective Constable?”
The receptionist looked puzzled. “You don’t want the room number?”
“No thanks. Sorry to be a nuisance.”
Moran wasn’t expecting a ‘not at all’, and he wasn’t disappointed. They took a seat in the foyer and Toby picked up a copy of the Times. It was getting busy and soon
a check-out queue began to form, the nearby lift door opening and closing and disgorging anxious, watch-checking parents with carefree toddlers and older siblings in tow, be-suited businessmen, and a fair smattering of elderly, white-haired couples moving at a frustratingly slower pace and no doubt increasing the stress levels of those keener to press on with the next leg of their journey.
Not long now, Brendan…
It was ten minutes in the end, just as Moran was toying with the idea of a second encounter with the receptionist. She came not from the lift but down the stairs, casually dressed in T-shirt and jeans, clutching a worn travel bag and wearing a neutral expression. She looked just like any ordinary young woman – attractive, but not memorably so. The hair was a touch shorter, but the face was the same as the photo Charlie had showed him. Gosia Marenkovich joined the queue and withdrew a purse from the side-zipped compartment of her bag. He nudged Toby who was deep in some sporting article and they went across the lobby together.
“Good morning, Ms Marenkovich. My name is Detective Chief Inspector Brendan Moran and this is Detective Sergeant Toby Glascock. May we have a quick word?”
To her credit, Gosia Marenkovich’s reaction was as calm as the English Channel, clearly visible through the hotel foyer’s plate glass window, appeared to be.
“Of course,” she replied. “It is about the house again? I am going on the ferry this morning, to France, you see. But if you are quick it is fine.”
“We’ll do our best.” Moran smiled. “Are you travelling alone? You see, we were told that you were – how can I put it? – a little reluctant to leave your friend’s house?”
“My friend? Ah, yes. Lydia.”
“That’s the lady.”
“She worries so much. She’s a good friend.”
“You were with a man, Ms Marenkovich. We had reason to believe he intended to harm you.” Toby’s voice was kindly but firm.
“A man? Oh, yes. Andreas. It was all fine. We fixed everything. A misunderstanding.”
“Ah. I see.” Moran said. “And where might we find Andreas?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He is doing his own thing now. I couldn’t say where he is.”
“You were lovers?” Toby asked.
If she was shocked at the directness of the question she didn’t let on. “In a way, I suppose. But it was difficult. We don’t agree about many things.”
“Which room were you staying in?” Moran said. “Mind if we have a look?”
Gosia’s composure faltered. “My room? Why? It is finished here. All finished. There’s nothing to see. I don’t understand.”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Moran indicated the lift.
Gosia moistened her lips. “OK. Sure.”
Moran allowed Gosia to lead and they followed her to the lift. He felt a rising tension. He could still be wrong.
First floor.
Second floor.
Gosia seemed to flinch as the lift pinged for the third floor.
“After you,” Moran eased her an encouraging smile.
They passed two straggling families attempting to bundle the kids down to checkout. A mother raised her eyes to heaven as she zoomed past to intercept a stray toddler’s bolt for freedom. A wave of giggling floated back from the direction of the stairwell, followed by the sound of a palm on flesh. The giggling stopped abruptly.
“Thought that was illegal,” Toby observed drily.
“Wait till you have kids,” Moran advised. “You’ll soon change your tune.”
An ear-splitting yell of protest announced the returning mother, her toddler’s escape attempt successfully thwarted.
Gosia had stopped outside one of the bedrooms. She glanced to the end of the corridor where the fire escape doors framed a bright rectangle of seaside light. Three floors up? Not a good idea.
Gosia was rooting in her handbag, making pretence of having mislaid the key. Her last line of defence. She looked up and recognised Moran’s expression for what it was. Yes. I know.
Her face seemed to collapse. Her arms dropped to her sides as Moran held out his hand. “The key, please, Ms Marenkovich.”
“Shall I, guv?” Toby’s shoulder was at the door.
“It’s all right. Here. Take it.” Gosia placed the key in Moran’s open palm. “He deserved it. The bastard. I hope he rots in hell.”
Moran opened the door and Toby went in. Moran encouraged Gosia with a gentle nudge to the shoulder.
She had made no attempt to hide the body. Andreas Pashkov lay naked on the bed, looking to all intents and purposes as if he were merely taking a nap.
“Ah,” Toby said.
“Take a seat, Ms Marenkovich.” Moran was checking Pashkov’s wrist for a pulse. To his surprise he found one; it was erratic and faint, but discernable. He nodded to Toby. “Still with us. Just.”
“You know, don’t you?” Gosia sat on the only available chair and demurely clasped her hands, resting them on her lap.
“About your father? About what Huang did to him, and many others? Yes.”
“I don’t care now what will happen to me.”
Toby was on the landline to the emergency services. Moran sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. “For what it’s worth, I understand your motive. What I find rather chilling is the premeditated way in which you planned your revenge – but I must congratulate you on your detective work. It can’t have been easy to locate Pashkov’s next assignment and arrange a house share so that you were in a position to seduce him.”
She shrugged. “Not so hard. A man is easy to deceive.”
Moran donned a pair of rubber gloves and examined the half-empty glass on the bedside table nearest to Pashkov’s body. He sniffed the contents and raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better I’d say this was the same potion Pashkov used in DI Pepper’s drinking water. Am I right?”
She nodded.
“From Pashkov’s own medicine chest?”
Another nod.
“Well, if that’s not irony I don’t know what is. You–”
Gosia launched herself at Pashkov’s unconscious body and flung herself full-length onto the bed, straddling him. Before Moran could react her hands had found Pashkov’s neck. Moran got hold of her shoulders while Toby, in less gentlemanly fashion, grabbed a handful of hair. She was strong and determined, but between them they managed to drag her off the bed and onto her feet. Her eyes spat hatred.
“He will die. Even if he lives I will find him and kill him.”
Toby held her firmly in an arm lock, breathing hard. “Not where you’re headed you won’t. Shall I escort Ms Marenkovich to the car?”
The wail of an ambulance siren drifted up from the car park. “Do that, DS Glascock. I’ll see if I can smooth the cross-constabulary politics a little for the Chief.”
“Good luck with that one, guv.”
Toby took her arm and Gosia Marenkovich allowed herself to be led from the room without a backward glance.
Chapter 39
“Ah.” DCS Higginson looked up as Moran knocked and entered. “The culprit returns. What in the name of all the saints have you been up to, Moran? I’ve had chief constables from two constabularies bending my ear today. Perhaps you’d be good enough to brief me?”
Moran sat down without invitation. He was past caring about niceties, rank and protocol. “We have Gosia Marenkovich in custody, the last link in the chain of events which started with DS Banner’s murder. I think we can say that, for the time being, the aftermath of last summer is over.”
“But this Huang character is still at large, isn’t he? Dorset is flapping like a runaway kite. They don’t like the idea of international drug operators coming and going freely among their tourists and elderly residents.”
“Sir, Huang is an invisible man. I don’t personally believe that he is an immediate concern for either constabulary. Better to leave him to the likes of the two Ronnies at the hospital.”
“You’re saying that he’s untouchable?”
/> Moran sighed. “By ourselves, yes. He’s sitting pretty at the top of his food chain, and the only fish we get to see are the minnows and sprats.”
“Like Pashkov.”
“A large sprat, but yes, like him.”
Higginson was shaking his head. “And that girl, Marenkovich. Ordinary, you say? Normal background?”
“Yes, sir. Her father got involved with Huang when he ran into financial trouble. He was approached because of his useful professional contacts.” Moran shrugged. “I don’t know all the details – I don’t need to – but something went awry. A whistleblower tipped Huang off that money was being skimmed, whether by Marenkovich’s father or another of the gang we’ll probably never know. Anyway, the result was a bloodbath. It was all over the Polish nationals. Gosia Marenkovich was sixteen and she’d already started a career as a model. The press made a big splash of it: ‘Beauty queen’s dad in warehouse drug cull’, that sort of thing.”
“One thing puzzles me.” Higginson’s brow creased thoughtfully. “You say that Marenkovich’s friend reported her as an abductee, yet that clearly wasn’t the case.”
“She’s a clever girl,” Moran said. “Contingency. If things got messy she had a witness to say she was taken forcibly. Then she could plead self defence, emerge with her clothes in disarray after she’d killed Pashkov.”
“But she didn’t take that option. Strange.”
Moran made a comme ci, comme ça gesture. “Sure, but it would have been a lot of hassle to carry it off: court case, more publicity. And, of course, the risk that her identity would be discovered. Prosecution then have their motive, and she goes down for life. In the end she just decided to disappear. But we turned up, and by then it was too late to play that particular card.”
“Indeed. Dorset is far from happy though. Their CC feels we could have avoided any unpleasantness by informing them earlier. And he told me so in words of one syllable, Brendan.”
