by M. G. Cole
Manfri continued. “Knowing she’d made up her mind, Duke insisted on meeting Mircea himself. He reckoned he didn’t need her, not that she was keeping any of the money. It took every penny.”
“I was told Mircea came to visit.”
“He was a hated man. Nobody liked what Duke was doing, and him doing a deal with Mircea threatened to make it worse. Me and Jay just wanted to turn our backs on the whole sorry mess and go.”
“The night before she died, she went to see Mircea. Why? If she had already told him she was not going to turn herself in, what was left to discuss?”
Manfri smiled sadly. “Ah, that would be greed, detective. Y’see, me tata knew he had a valuable supply line. Jay didn’t care about such things, but he knew the value, so knew that Mircea could be screwed for a bigger cut of the profits. That’s what they argued about when Mircea came.”
Garrick had assumed it had been Mircea and Jamal arguing, Kezia hadn’t been clear.
“Maybe Mircea saw this as a coup, I dunno. But it was obvious he wasn’t going to let that happen. He weren’t going to let Duke screw him over. And the only other link he had to the community was…”
“Jamal.”
“He needed her and had no grip on her. So he set her up. She got a call asking to meet. All friendly, no hard feelings, like. He was even offering a new cut of coke. Better quality, I don’t know. He wanted her to pass it on to Duke as a token they needed to talk. Renegotiate.”
Manfri was becoming restless. He leaned back in his chair and took in the pub. The other customers had given up casting disapproving looks and were now quietly talking and laughing. Business as usual.
“She met him in his lorry.”
“Aye. When she got there, he weren’t there. She waited. He didn’t show. There was a message in the truck telling her to meet him on the hill. He wanted to try to talk her out of it, or wish her good luck if he couldn’t. Stupidly, she felt some sort of loyalty. He had been the one to bring her over and hadn’t turned her in, true to his word. She went to talk to the other bloke who works with him. He had the samples to pass on to Duke. She called me. I picked her up and took her to Castle Hill.”
Everything was slotting neatly into Garrick’s new world view.
Manfri was reluctant to continue. He kept glancing between his drink, Garrick and the rest of the room.
“What happened on the hill is quite critical, Manfri. And you know where there, weren’t you?”
Manfri nodded. He took a long gulp of Guinness, putting the glass down harder than he intended.
“It didn’t make sense to me why he would want to meet there, and not in his truck, like they’re arranged. I was safer for him there. It felt all wrong. I know why now, of course. He was going to kill me tata.”
Garrick’s drink froze halfway to his lips. He slowly lowered the glass as he absorbed that revelation.
“Mircea wanted to kill Duke? Wouldn’t that completely ruin his network?”
“It was ruined anyway. This could maybe solve it. Kill him and lay the blame at Jay’s feet. What do you think a murder charge would do to her asylum application? You don’t know what it’s like to be exploited. What it’s like to have nothing to lose. Who do you turn to? The law? Friends? Family?”
If there was a knighthood for being a grade-A bastard, then it sounded as if Mircea would be the perfect recipient. Garrick really couldn’t blame Manfri for wanting him dead.
“So what happened on the hill?”
23
Jamal shivered as she climbed out of Manfri’s car. The heater in the battered Golf had stopped working long ago, but it was still warmer that the constant wind.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” Manfri said as he hurried to follow her.
It was lightly raining, but the wind chilled them both. Manfri had parked the car on Crete Road, close to the metal posts that prevented vehicular access on to the hill. Jamal adjusted the two kilo plastic wrapped bags she had stuffed in her jacket’s inside pocket. She hated that Peter Thorpe had asked her to do this, but consoled herself that it was the final time. With frozen fingers, she switched her mobile’s torch on and illuminated the narrow path that cut around the hill. It was soft with mud from days of rain, but it could have been worse. Manfri followed closely behind, muttering with every step.
Taking it in turns to pass through a wooden kissing gate, Jamal tried to reassure Manfri that this was for the best. From tomorrow she would be able to start her life out of the shadows. She didn’t share his concern that she may be sent back to Iraq, the nice woman at Guiding Hands had assured her that her case was a strong one, bolstered by the fact that Christians there were being persecuted at the hands of other groups.
They passed under sagging power cables strung from a tower and heard the gentle hiss as rain pelt them. The trail became stepper, and she smiled when she heard Manfri panting for breath. A majority of her journey from Iraq had been on foot, so a tiny hill like this posed no problem. Ahead, the curve of the hill offered tantalising glimpses of the yellow and white streetlights of Folkestone far below.
The path clung to the edge of the hill, and more lights from the town became visible, including a constant line of headlights moving to and fro across the M20.
“I will go to university and study law,” she declared. She had told Manfri her plans many times, but she enjoyed talking aloud about her dreams. It was a superstition, but she believed that only by speaking about them aloud could they come true. It had worked during the arduous crossing to the UK. “I will help others like me. I will make sure the Romani have true freedom.” In the darkness, she punched the air and smiled. “I will make life great for us all!”
She turned to check he was okay – her torch blinding him.
“Jay!” he hissed, covering his eyes. His night vision was shot. “Now I can’t see a thing!”
“There is nothing to see. Just me!” she said, pressing on.
“And that is the best thing to see,” he said blindly groping for her. She giggled and quickened her pace, keeping just out of reach.
The trail became stepper, then slowly plateaued as they reached the top of the hill. A concrete cylinder had been placed there to signal the summit. From here they could look down at the lights of Folkestone International, with trains berthed against the platforms, ready to venture into the Tunnel and across to France. To the left of that was a spangled vista of lights defining Folkestone before they stopped in the distant darkness of the English Channel.
“It’s beautiful up here,” she said, taking in the view.
Manfri sat on the cylinder to catch his breath and considered that it was the first time anybody had referred to Folkestone as ‘beautiful.’ It was certainly quiet. Other than the patter of rain and gusting wind, there was nothing.
“Are you sure you have the time right?”
She checked her phone. It was approaching twelve-thirty. “He’ll be here.”
“Jay, please, let’s go. He knows where we’ll be. Let him come to us.”
There was a sudden movement in the darkness, followed by muffled swearing. Manfri stood, positioning himself protectively between Jamal and the stranger. Jamal raised her phone’s torch–
Casting light over Duke. He raised his hand over his eyes to stop himself from being blinded.
“Jesus Christ, girl! Point it away!”
His voice was slurred, and she could smell the familiar odour of alcohol even from here. Their caravan reeked of the stuff.
“Tata? What the hell are you doing here?”
“I got a message saying Mircea had something for me to celebrate our new partnership.”
“I thought that wasn’t happening?” Manfri and Jamal exchanged a confused look.
“Must’ve had a change of heart.”
Jamal she reached into her coat and produced the two bags of cocaine. “I suppose he means these. I was told to give them to you.” She threw them deliberately short. Duke scrambled in the damp grass towards
them.
“Careful, you stupid cow!”
“They said it was worth twice as much.” She held up her hands to disown it. “Take it. It is yours now, I am having nothing more to do with this.”
Duke kneeled to retrieve them, his arthritic knees clicking. He hugged the packets close to his chest like they were his children.
“Then I don’t have any need for you. You’ll have to find somewhere else to lay your head.”
“Tata–” Manfri said with a warning growl.
Duke tried to stand, but his knees wouldn’t obey. “You can shut up! I give you a home and you betray me by siding with this,” he snarled disparagingly at Jamal.
Manfri would not be pushed down. “We are going back, tata. The rest of the community don’t want you there. You find somewhere else.”
“I don’t care what they want. Or you. They’ll do as I say. So will you, lad.”
“See the mess you have caused, Jamal?”
They all turned to locate the source of the new voice. A large figure kept in the darkness, but the accent was unmistakable.
“Mircea?” Jamal said, turning her light on him. He was just at the edge of LED’s range.
“I said I will meet you here,” he pointed a finger at Duke, “because I wanted you to see this. This is where greed gets you.”
Duke tried to stand again, but his knee let him down. “Mircea. I was just sending this whore packing.” He indicated to the two bags he was still cradling. “More of this, and you and I will go a long way!” He laughed, deaf to the menace in the Romanian’s voice.
Mircea’s eyes didn’t leave Jamal and Manfri.
“He’s trying to get rid of you both. You know what it’s like to be forced from your home, don’t you, Jamal? And now he’s doing it to you again. I want you to stay.” He indicated to Manfri. “Look what you have now. You have made a home with this fine young man.” He stepped closer, looking Manfri up and down. “And you are far more a leader than he ever could be. Why should things change?”
Jamal shook her head. “I don’t care. I have told you, there is nothing you can do to me.” She turned to Manfri, casting the light on him. “Let’s go and leave them to it.”
Duke finally clambered to his feet. In the darkness, he didn’t see Mircea’s sudden burst of speed, but he felt the white-hot pain in his side. He gurgled in agony. Alerted, Jamal swung the light back around. Duke was clutching his stomach. It was difficult to see any detail in the darkness, or against his black coat, but the light caught the glint of a knife in Mircea’s blood-soaked hand.
“Tata!” Manfri bellowed.
On autopilot, Jamal took a step forward, and then stopped in shock. Manfri ran forward and caught Duke, but his weight brought both men down.
“What are you doing?” Jamal screamed. Her numb fingers tried to type 112.
Mircea shield his eyes as Jamal’s light blinded him. He lashed out, knocking the phone from her hand and backhanding her across the cheek. She fell onto her backside as the Romanian staggered over her in the darkness. She saw the blade in his hand.
Years of finely honed self-preservation reared inside her – and she ran. Glancing only behind, unable to see Manfri pinned by his father, but only hearing his voice in the distance.
“Jay! Jay! Where are you?”
24
DCI David Garrick supported himself on the bonnet of his jeep as the world around him swam unsteadily. The pain behind his eye had started to throb, and he swore he could hear the growth in his head as it tried to gnaw its way out.
Purely his imagination, he assured himself. He closed his eyes to let the wave of dizziness pass. In this state he couldn’t barely walk, never mind drive.
With some gentle cajoling, Manfri had agreed to make a formal statement against the Romanian. He was less concerned with the death of his own father; he wanted to see Mircea hang from a tree for what he did to Jamal.
Cradling his bleeding tata, he had watched helplessly as both Jamal and Mircea disappeared down the side of the hill. By the time he followed, there was no sign of either of them. When he scrambled through the darkness and returned to Duke, he was weak and fading. Somehow, Manfri had managed to get him to his car and return to their caravan where Duke had died.
Of course the police were not going to be called. They never were. And with the drugs, it could only come back to destroy their fragile community. Garrick couldn’t believe he had been standing over Duke, standing over another victim of Mircea’s, but with no idea how he had died.
The spinning abated. He looked across the road to the cemetery. He didn’t have the heart to tell Manfri that they would have to exhume his father straight after just laying him to rest. He wasn’t sure how that factored into the Romani’s view on death. That was a task he was more than happy to assign to Chib, especially as she had previously suggested such a thing.
He got behind the wheel and realised that the case was suddenly over.
No big crescendo. Just the gentle clatter of pieces falling together. He suddenly felt incredibly tired.
There were still a number of loose ends. The knife that killed Duke, and may have been used to carve up the girls, was missing. As was any hard evidence that placed the Romanian at the crime scene.
But they had a witness to one murder. Admittedly, a murder they didn’t know about thirty minutes ago, but it would be churlish to complain. And they had video evidence connecting both Thorpe and Mircea to Galina on the morning of her death.
He called Chib to update her. She couldn’t keep the delight out of her voice, and her cheer echoed from the speakers of his hands-free speakers.
“I confronted Thorpe about him and Mircea picking Galina up at the hospital. He denied ever meeting her. Said he’d never been to the hospital.”
“Do you blame him? It’s another nail in his cell door. As I recall, there was a dog walker who found Galina last year. Get Harry to ask her about the Audi. It may ring a few bells. Wait, better make it Wilkes, he’s got a better manner than Harry. Oh, and good news. You get the exhume Duke’s body.”
“Me, sir?”
“It’s going to take a truckload of paperwork to get permission. Right up your street, Chib.”
“And where will you be, sir?”
“I’m heading to you now.”
“Shouldn’t somebody talk to Trisha Warren?”
“I was thinking about going down to the church to see her, but I decided against it.”
“Why?”
“She hasn’t exactly been forthcoming during any of our little chats, so I’m going to get uniform to pick her up. With any luck, it will rattle her skull enough to start talking.”
Garrick’s assessment on how Trisha Warren would react had been a colossal understatement. He had left her to stew in the interview room, while Harry circulated around the rest of the jubilant team and bullied them to come to his delayed birthday drinks, now set for tomorrow night as a combine birthday/victory celebration.
Carrying a folder of printed images, Garrick walked in on Trisha who was in floods of tears. It took him a good five minutes and a cup of tea to calm her down. She sat, folded in her chair like a mouse, blowing her nose and stuttering for breath.
“Do I need a solicitor?”
“Only if you feel like you should have one present. You are not being charged with anything, Miss Warren. But it appears you have been less than forthcoming when I have asked you questions.”
She noisily blew her nose. “I have answered every question you have asked me.”
Garrick pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache hadn’t really gone away during the drive, and he was feeling irritable. He could already tell the type of person Trisha was. Somebody who thought they were smart and always a step ahead of the game. Just that she was a happy-clappy Christian who, admittedly, did plenty of good for others, didn’t mean he had to indulge her.
“Tell me, Trisha, did you train in the legal profession?”
“Why yes. I st
udied for the LLB and then my diploma.”
“But not the LPC?”
She pulled a face and primly sipped the tea from a paper cup. “I failed The LLB,” she replied curtly. “It wasn’t my type of thing after all. I preferred to help out at the Citizen’s Advice. Much more rewarding.”
Garrick nodded. She failed the qualification to even study becoming a solicitor. That explained a great deal.
“I see. That explains why you only answer questions in a very specific way.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but thought better of it.
“Where to begin! You claimed never to have seen Galina.”
“I never said such a thing.”
“I was with you at Napier when we showed everybody her picture.” He took Galina’s picture from the folder and slid it towards her. Trisha barely looked at him.
“You never actually asked me if I knew her. And no, I did not. To be honest, she was vaguely familiar, but they all do look the same, don’t they?”
Garrick blinked in surprise at the veneer of racism. Trisha apparently didn’t seem to beware of it as she continued.
“I see many waifs and strays, Detective. They come into the church, they ask for our help. Unless we have to, we make a point of never taking details down. They see that as an authoritarian sign, and that’s the last thing we want.”
“You knew the Romani community quite well.”
Trisha shrugged. “You never asked me about them.”
“No, but I mentioned, Jamal was connected with them.” He took Jamal’s picture out. A sadness crossed her face, and she gave an involuntary snob.
“I know what she looks like, Detective. I was trying to help the poor girl.”
Garrick leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “And it never occurred to you that I may need to know every little detail? We have been working flat out trying to find her murderer. Every detail, no matter how irrelevant you think it is, could be important.”
