SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS

by M. G. Cole

  Garrick and Chib stepped out from the car and were immediately struck by how cold the courtyard was, as if it possessed its own microclimate. A young Middle Eastern man was doing an admirable job at shovelling the snow into a wheelbarrow. He looked up without a smile, but a simple nod. A scarf was wrapped around his head, and his puffer jacket had seen better days. They could see holes in his gloves and Garrick suspected the only real thing keeping him warm was the effort he put into work.

  “We should make a note of what they’re paying these fellows,” he said quietly to Chib. “I bet it’s not minimum wage.”

  They approached the farmhouse and heard the sounds of dogs yapping inside. There was a flagpole on the stable roof. It hadn’t been clear on approaching what it was, but from this angle they could tell it was a damp, limp Cross of Saint George. Garrick flicked a look to the young man who had resumed his snow clearing duties.

  “That’s going to make him feel welcome,” he muttered.

  He looked sidelong at the stables. Through the gaps between the vans and door, he could see people moving. At least two of them were young women carrying boxes. He stopped to look at the vans. It took Chib a moment to register what he’d seen.

  “Romanian plates.”

  Garrick nodded. “Make a note of them.”

  Chib used her phone to photograph the vehicles.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” snapped a voice from the farmhouse.

  Garrick reached into his pocket for his ID card – then froze. He recognised the tall, thin, balding man glaring at him as he strode from the farmhouse. A pair of Alsatians ran out, no longer barking, but circling around Garrick and Chib, tails raised and sniffing inquisitively.

  “Mr Fielding?” asked Garrick, recalling the farmer’s name from the background info Fanta had emailed him? “Mr Stan Fielding?”

  Stan evidently didn’t recognise Garrick, but he could perfectly recall the bitterness on the man’s face as he sat in the café in Wye. He was wearing the same green wax jacket as he made a beeline straight for Chib, who’s phone was still pointed at the vans.

  Garrick sidestepped, blocking him and raising his ID card.

  “DCI Garrick, this is DS Okon, we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Stan stopped in his tracks as if he’d struck an invisible wall. He said nothing. Garrick reached down and scratched between the ears of the dog sniffing at his coat. The Alsatian’s tail wagged furiously, obviously creatures with more bark than bite.

  “You’re part of Trisha Warren’s Guiding Hands programme?”

  Stan visibly relaxed and nodded towards the snow-clearer. “I take a few of them. I find them useful to have around.”

  “I imagine there is not too much work to do this time of year. I believe you don’t have livestock? So what do you grow in the winter?”

  Stan laughed, further relaxing. “Farms don’t stop just because the weather turns. If anything, it’s busier now as we try to get things repaired and ready for spring.” He pointed to the barn. “There’s always tons to be done.”

  “And I see you’re exporting to Europe.” He nodded at the vans.

  “Wine. A bit of Kent sparkle to give them a run for their money.”

  “Very entrepreneurial.”

  Chib strolled towards the stables. Stan eyed her nervously, but said nothing.

  “Do you sell wholesale, or direct?”

  “Direct. Best way to make a profit is to control the market. What do the police want to know about my wine for? I have all the necessary licenses and export papers.”

  “Merely curious.” Garrick unlocked his phone, noticing that there was no signal on the farm, and found the picture of Mircea ushering Galina into the car. “Does he look familiar?”

  Stan stared long and hard. So long that Garrick was prompted to ask again.

  “Mr Constantine. He’s a business associate. Works with the church helping this lot,” he nodded to the young man who was now pushing the full wheelbarrow from the courtyard. “And he buys plenty of my wine.”

  “And the girl?”

  “I really can’t tell.”

  Garrick flicked through the pictures until he found the clear one of Galina.

  “Her?”

  There was no disguising Stan’s reaction this time. He paled and stuttered before composing himself. “She worked here for a bit. Hard worker. Likeable. Gal, that was her name. Like that Wonder Woman actress. Looked a bit like her too. She suddenly went. Didn’t even say goodbye. Those camel jockeys are all the same. I thought she might have got deported.” He shrugged. “Happens a lot. They just vanish off the radar.”

  Garrick’s gaze hardened. He hadn’t liked Stan when John Howard had introduced him, and now his opinion had crystalised. Here was a man making a pretence of charitably helping those in need, when it was just a smokescreen to mining the vile seam of exploitation, using those too innocent and vulnerable to object as he lined his own pockets. Even if it wasn’t physical murder, it was murder of the soul.

  The clatter of a stable door opening made Stan jolt. He was clearly tense over something. Chib had opened one of the doors. Behind it was parked a gleaming black Audi A1.

  Just like the one in the picture.

  It wasn’t Peter Thorpe’s car after all.

  “Mr Fairfield, I would like to continue asking you questions down at the station, if you don’t mind.”

  Garrick’s tone made it clear that it wasn’t a request.

  26

  This time she had been missed.

  A worried boyfriend had made a report that very morning, panicking when his girlfriend hadn’t returned home. Her description matched the girl they had found in Kings Wood, and Fanta was able to gather a lot of information quickly.

  Sihana was Albanian and had been in the clutches of sex traffickers since she was fourteen, an all-too common occurrence there. She was considered exceptionally beautiful and transferred to the UK in the backseat of a car. On the surface, she was just another student coming to study. The reality was, escorting their victims on a ferry was the easiest way for the traffickers to get their premium rated girls in and out. In England, she would fetch a high price. Now barely eighteen, and her future was already over.

  Until she had rebelled and slipped from the clutches of her captors.

  Sihana had been taken in by a shelter and lavished care and attention she had never experienced before. A claim for asylum had been made, and it looked as if it would be a mere formality to be approved. She had met her boyfriend, who was a volunteer at one of the shelters, and they had recently moved in together. All indications were that her life was starting anew.

  Garrick’s team worked under an oppressive, grim silence. The light-hearted gallows humour that was essential to survive such stressful circumstances had disappeared. Nobody spoke about it, but they all felt responsible for her death. A photo of her and her boyfriend hung on the evidence wall. They looked the perfect young couple, and that had just added to the sombre atmosphere.

  Fanta had retreated to the bathroom for a quiet sob and returned to her desk in gloomy silence. Garrick noticed PC Wilkes squeeze her hand as he passed, but turned a blind eye. She was desperately searching for any links between Sihana, Peter Thorpe, Stan Fielding and Mircea. There were none she could find. Sihana had never been part of Trisha Warren’s Guiding Hands programme.

  Stan Feilding was being interviewed, but without any formal charges, they were unable to search the farm just yet. Fanta’s hunch was that they wouldn’t find any connections there either.

  She unloaded her lack of results to Garrick, who looked distracted most of the time.

  “Did you hear me?” she prompted?

  Garrick had zoned out. “Sorry. You said you thought we wouldn’t find anything at the farm.”

  “After that. About where she was working. She got the job on her own merits. Nobody set it up for her.”

  Garrick nodded, but he wasn’t really listening. On the drive back to t
he station, his phone had chimed with a voicemail that had been left when he had no reception at the farm. It was his consultant who had seen the results of the MRI and wanted him to come in to discuss. Today, preferably.

  The implied sense of urgency was worrying.

  “Or should I be telling all this to DS Okon?”

  “Mmm?”

  Ordinarily, PC Lui would snap something sarcastic and witty. Instead she just sighed, deflated. “She was a waitress in a café. She got the job on her own merits. Her boyfriend was very proud. We should send somebody to check it out. Like me,” she added hopefully.

  Garrick nodded. He was too unfocused for such things. He’d left Chib to conduct Feilding’s interview, fishing for the merest of connections to Sihana. Galina had worked for him, Jamal was linked through the Romanian, it was all too much to be coincidence. One single link to the new victim would put Stan Fielding firmly at the centre of the investigation.

  But such evidence was like finding hen’s teeth.

  “Okay, you go and find out as much as you can.”

  Fanta leapt to her feet, suddenly smiling. She had been desperate to be part of the frontline investigation from the beginning.

  “Will do, sir!” The formal moniker was a sign of just how happy she was.

  She snatched her coat from the back of her chair as Garrick walked to the evidence board to look at the map pinned there. A fresh pin had been added to Kings Wood.

  “Where did she live?”

  “Kennington.”

  He traced his finger along the map. It was just at the bottom of the where she was found.

  “And this café?”

  “Wye.”

  Garrick spun on his heels. “What is it called?”

  Fanta laughed as she pulled her coat on. “You’ll like this: Wye Have Coffee?”

  PC Fanta Liu had been fuming as she took off her coat and sat back at her computer, mumbling about being a slave to HOLMES. Garrick had lavished her with praise for that vital titbit, and then told her he was going to the café instead. Her value was at the heart of things, and he wanted her to push the SOCO team for their initial findings.

  Garrick drove too fast to Wye and triggered one of the M20 speed cameras that double flashed in his mirror to prove that he had been nicked. He had been leaving a second message on his consultant’s voicemail to try and arrange an appointment and had given up by the time he parked outside the café.

  The owner, Margaret, had broken down in tears when she heard the news and Garrick made her a cup of tea as she slumped at a corner table. She had been incredibly fond of Sihana. She was never on time because of the transport difficulties in getting to work, but she always stayed longer and never complained. She had been due in this lunchtime, and Margaret had put it down to her poor timekeeping.

  Margaret wasn’t much use when it came to talking about her customers. She had only taken over on January third and was only just beginning to recognise the regulars. She knew John Howard, of course, his bookshop was on the same block and he was a creature of habit when it came to his cream teas. Sihana had commented on him too, as he never tipped. Not even a penny, which was unusual because the pretty Albanian could charm hefty tips from the most hardened customers. All of which she was allowed to keep, Margaret hastily added.

  “What about him?”

  Garrick showed her a picture of Stan Feilding he had taken in the station.

  “Oh, yes. He’s often in here, and I think quite smitten with her. A big tipper.” That didn’t fit the profile of the man Garrick met. John was renowned for his parsimonious attitude, and he had pegged Stan to be the same. The nationalist attitude, exploitation, Saint George’s flag, he was far from a textbook example of somebody who would tip a foreigner. From what he had been told, Sihana’s English was functional and heavily accented. The antithesis of what he assumed Stan tolerated. Unless, of course, he was trying to charm her into a false sense of security…

  But the connection had been made. Unfortunately, Margaret had no security cameras, but Garrick was assured that there would easily enough eye witness corroboration. In fact, he made a note to pop in and confirm with John Howard before he left.

  The picture of Peter Thorpe went unrecognised, but another of Mircea provoked a reaction. She was pretty sure that the Romanian had met with Stan here just last week.

  Garrick hurried from the café, his mind whirling. He was halfway down the street to John’s bookshop when he received a call from Fanta.

  “Must be nice outside in the crisp fresh air,” she commented. “I think I might be coming down with the lurgy in this stuffy office.”

  Garrick sighed wearily, but her sarcasm was a sign she had promising news to impart. He told her they now had a direct link between Fielding and Sihana. He needed Chib to keep him there and start the ball rolling so that they could search the farm.

  Fanta filled him in on the forensic investigation. The girl had been alive as the skin was carved from her back. She had been left to bleed to death, but it was a toss-up whether exposure got to her first. Like the other victims, there was no sign of sexual abuse. The light dress and lack of footwear suggested she had met her attacker elsewhere and a preliminary search of the car park suggested that she maybe had been marched from there, deeper into the forest.

  In the snow, there were hints of a struggle and a chase, but it hadn’t lasted long. Her execution had been slow and deliberate.

  Garrick sensed she was holding something back, and indeed she was. Her last flourish came with a loud ‘Ta-da!’

  “They found the knife that killed her. It was in the car park.”

  That was sloppy, considering the unhurried nature of her death.

  Fanta continued. “The lab needs more time to confirm, but striations on the wounds and blade match!”

  That was a breakthrough. Microscopic notches and imperfections on the blade would create the same patterns on the skin, which was firm evidence that the same murder weapon was used in all three incidents. And that usually meant it was wielded by the same killer. In this case, somebody who was perfecting his art of skin grafting.

  “And they match the wound on Duke too!”

  Garrick looked up and down the street as if searching for inspiration. “That is a problem. We know Mircea stabbed Duke. Manfri is willing to testify to it. He could have killed the first two girls, but since he’s banged up, how did the same knife end up at Sihana’s crime scene?”

  “I think you may be thrilled with something else we found out. I found out,” she quickly amended. “Fielding’s Audi is probably the one that picked up Galina at the hospital, but we can’t be sure. But our Romanian friend was definitely the passenger…”

  “Which indicates that Fielding was driving.”

  “Correct. So I checked with ANPR and guess what, it was also at the Orbital Park McDonald’s at the same time Jamal was waiting at the roundabout for Manfri to pick her up!”

  “Feilding and Mircea were watching her. They followed them to Castle Hill.”

  “That fits with your idea that he was picked up at the back of the Truckstop.”

  Stan Feilding hadn’t been just acting as the Romanian’s business partner, he had been taxiing him around so that he didn’t have to use the lorry.

  “The knife wasn’t found because Mircea left it in the car. It was Stan’s knife all along. That’s how he was able to use it on Sihana.”

  “Check and mate!” Fanta declared.

  Garrick hung up and made it a few more steps to Pilgrim’s Tale when his phone rang again. It was his consultant asking if he could come in by the end of the day. It was already three o’clock, so getting to Tunbridge Wells would be a stretch, but he said he would.

  He stepped into the bookshop, the bell tinkling and, yet again, failing to summon John.

  “John? It’s David.” He headed for the armchairs at the till. There was a partially opened box of books and another two new shade-less table lamps, these are made from reclaimed me
tal and sculpted into sinuous curves. To Garrick’s eye, they looked like junk.

  “Hello!”

  Garrick jumped at the sudden voice from behind. John emerged from the backroom, drying his hands.

  “On tenterhooks today, are we?”

  “It’s been a hectic few days.”

  John indicated to an armchair. “Then take a load off and let me put the kettle on. I have a new blend that arrived today.”

  “It will have to be another time. I have a consultant’s appointment in Tunbridge Wells I must get to.” He hadn’t meant to indicate to his head, but did so subconsciously. John frowned.

  “Ah. Perhaps later? My door’s always open if you need to…”

  “I appreciate it. I was going to ask you if you remember seeing this man,” he showed him Mircea, “at the café with Stan?”

  John nodded. “A couple of times.”

  “Great. Oh, and since I’m here, those books you’ve been reading on Romani culture. Can I borrow them?” Manfri and Duke’s involvement was now at the heart of the case, so he thought it wise to research as much as possible.

  John’s face darkened at the implied sacrilege. “No!”

  “Sorry, I meant buy them.” Christ, John really was parsimonious.

  “Of course!” he brightened and looked around the room. “I have three of them, which I’ve finished with. Where are they…?”

  Garrick glanced at the time on his phone. “I tell you want, I’ll come back tonight and pick them up. And you can let me try that tea.”

  “Deal!”

  Garrick caught the title of one of the newly arrived books in the cardboard box. “The life of Doctor John Stockton Hough?” He picked it out. It was very old, and the cover was smooth and delicate. John quickly plucked it from his hand.