The Autumn Tree (DI Bliss Book 8)

by Tony J. Forder

  ‘Not that I recall. I’ll check my notes and our archives, but I can’t say it rings a bell. It’s possibly not something we considered at the time, so we wouldn’t have pried. Are you still investigating him, Jimmy?’

  ‘Should I not be? I want that twisted bastard for murder, and there’s no way I’m going to allow him to win his appeal, either.’

  Bannister chuckled. ‘Sounds like fighting talk. I’ll expect some fireworks. Tell me, what’s this dark web thing all about?’

  Bliss couldn’t fault her for at least trying. ‘I’ll keep that to myself for the time being.’

  ‘Spoilsport. Does it have anything to do with your strangling victim?’

  Sometimes he forgot how sharp an investigator she was; the reporter would have made a decent detective. ‘Let’s say we’re keeping an open mind.’

  ‘Did she work for one of his agencies?’

  Even Bliss was surprised at how quickly Bannister had pieced that together. ‘Acting DI Bishop will update you all during his media briefing later. What I will tell you, if you promise me you’ll dig into Drake and any possible dark web connection, is that…’

  ‘What? Why the pause?’

  ‘I need to hear that promise.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll look into it and get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks. All right. Sandra, be prepared for this to explode. It’s far bigger than we expected. As usual, I’ll make sure you hear about it first. There may be some aspects I’m unable to reveal, but I’ll give you everything I can by way of a head start.’

  The journalist was more than happy with that, and promised to start looking into Lewis Drake’s operation immediately. Bliss tapped the phone against his forehead. His use of a newspaper reporter as an unofficial researcher could never be officially sanctioned, but within the job everybody knew the police and the media worked together in small one-to-one cells. Investigating officers relied on journalists to feel their way into areas that were protected against official police intrusion, while ambitious – or even merely enthusiastic – reporters trusted police sources to feed them news prior to it being broken nationally.

  His mind swiftly flipped back to Emily. He wasn’t ready for the conversation she wanted to have. It was difficult enough for him to be emotionally attached when working mundane or slow-moving cases, but something like this series of murders sucked him into a vacuum and would not spit him out again until it was over. He allowed no time for himself, let alone others, during such critical investigations. But he knew that ultimately, no matter how long they talked or where they took it, the answer boiled down to one thing: his feelings.

  Bliss sighed, pocketed his phone and turned back towards the corridor. Somewhere inside his head he knew there was a spool of thought that insisted he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Emily. Yet somehow, his heart continued to be completely unaware of this commitment.

  Twenty-Two

  Before leaving HQ, Bliss pulled up a case file whose number was indelibly imprinted on his memory. He navigated the folders on the system before opening the one containing victim images. Having eventually located the individual whose photograph he needed, he ran off six hard copies.

  Fifteen minutes later, he pulled his pool car off Mayors Walk in Westwood and into the large parking area of a house set thirty paces off the main road. He switched off the engine and turned in his seat. From the inside pocket of his jacket he pulled out two of the photos he’d printed. ‘Ready for some grunt work?’ he said to DC Hunt and Glen Ashton.

  Hunt was a decent copper who put in his time and worked hard without complaint – other than when he was sent on post mortem duty. He lacked ambition and was seldom proactive, but Bliss nonetheless considered him an asset to the team because he followed orders and never shirked a duty. He’d anticipated an objection from Ashton, though, and he got it.

  ‘You expect me to go door to door?’

  Bliss sighed. ‘What are you, Glen, some kind of Bongo?’

  In the front passenger seat, DS Chandler sniggered.

  Ashton’s forehead rippled. ‘What the bloody hell is a Bongo when it’s at home?’

  Bliss grinned. ‘It’s an acronym we use to describe a lazy cop: books on, never goes out.’

  The investigator grunted. ‘Well, that’s not me. I do my fair share – you can ask anybody I work with. But not this sort of crap.’

  ‘Why not? You think you’re above doing a bit of legwork?’

  ‘Would you have done it when you worked for the NCA?’

  Bliss turned further around to face the big man who seemed to fill the entire rear seat of the Mondeo, squeezing the slighter form of Hunt into the far corner. ‘First of all, Glen, I put the time in on the streets when I wore the uniform. Second of all, yes: I would have knocked on doors while I was with the NCA. In fact, I did, on several occasions. Pal, if you think being an investigator for ERSOU makes you something special, your career with the agency will be much shorter than you ever imagined. Most of the men and women I worked with there are dedicated, enthusiastic professionals. They’ll spot you coming a mile off if you’re anything less.’

  He held out the photos. ‘Her name is Haweeo Salat. This is our runaway Somalian kid – one of those we rescued from the container. She preferred to call herself Primrose. Pen and I are going to have a chat with the couple who run this place. Primrose lived here for almost six months, so they know her better than anyone. But she could have had friends or been known to any of the neighbours. So, yes, Glen, I want you and John to go out there and ask questions. I want to know where this girl fled to when she ran away. I also want to know who her closest friends were.’

  Ashton responded with a surly shrug of compliance. DC Hunt could barely conceal the smirk thinning his lips. ‘Come on, Glen,’ he said. ‘Get down and dirty with us mere plebs.’

  For the best part of a decade, Eamonn and Dottie Wilkey had run the halfway house for young and single asylum seekers who were awaiting legal formalities and judgements. A cheerful couple in their late fifties, they led Bliss and Chandler into the vast kitchen, and Eamonn set about making them a hot drink each. The two detectives pulled out chairs at a huge dining table made from reclaimed and treated railway sleepers, which was laid out for twelve people.

  ‘I take it you’re full as per usual,’ Bliss said, indicating the place settings.

  ‘And then some,’ Dottie replied, rolling her eyes. ‘I only wish we could take more. We’re only allowed eight at a time, even though we could probably move things around and squeeze in another couple.’

  Bliss did a quick recount. ‘Eight? There’s a dozen places set.’

  ‘We always set a couple of spares in case friends drop by.’

  ‘You mentioned something about Primrose at the front door,’ Eamonn said, pulling mugs from their hooks and setting them down on the counter next to the bubbling kettle. ‘I remember you, Inspector Bliss. You popped in on the day Prim came to us. You asked about her, made sure she was settling in okay.’

  Bliss nodded. ‘I felt sorry for the poor kid. She’d been separated so quickly from the other girls. Mainly because certain elements of her story had come across as weaker than others to the officials she met.’

  ‘Yes, she told us all about it,’ Dottie said, turning away from the tea and coffee jars to look at him. ‘Prim was not one of life’s great talkers, even though her English was pretty good. She seemed overawed by everything here, which only made her shyness that much worse.’

  ‘But she made friends, yes?’ Chandler asked, notepad flipped open on the table, pen tapping against it.

  ‘After a fashion. Excuse me for asking, but are you able to tell us what she’s done wrong? I know she ran away from us here, but I simply refuse to believe that girl was capable of breaking the law.’

  ‘She broke the law when she ran away,’ Bliss reminded her. ‘But that’s not why we’re here. In fact, we have no idea where she went, nor what she’s up to. I can assure you, Mr and Mrs Wilkey,
if we track down Primrose and manage to speak with her as a consequence of anything said here in this room, that’s as far as it will go. All we want is some information. Her immigration status is of no concern to us or our investigation.’

  ‘Perhaps we can help,’ Eamonn said.

  Bliss waited until the Wilkeys brought the mugs over and joined them at the table. ‘I’m hoping that’s the case. But we’d also like to talk to anybody she was close to. Close enough to share secrets with, that is.’

  ‘There were a couple of girls Prim was friendly with. A young man, too. But as you know, this is a transitory home for these people. Six months is about all they get, at best. Either they move on because they’ve been successful and are being settled elsewhere, or they get carted off to a more formal holding area prior to deportation.’

  ‘So you’re saying the people she may have been close to have long gone?’

  ‘Yes. And we never learn their ultimate destination. Occasionally some of them will write or drop us an e-mail, or maybe comment on our Facebook page. But I don’t recall any contact from the three I mentioned since they left us.’

  Bliss had not expected this to be easy. ‘All right. So, let’s see if either of you can help. As you’re probably aware, Primrose was one of five young girls rescued from a shipping container, having been trafficked to the UK. The thing is, I gave each of them a business card so they could get hold of me if they ever landed in any trouble. One of those cards has turned up in the possession of someone other than one of the five girls. We’ve since tracked down three of them; another willingly went back to her home country, so finding out if she left her card behind is going to be almost impossible. We’re hoping to speak with Primrose or anybody who might have known she intended to run away, because there’s every chance it was she who passed her card on to another young girl.’

  The Wilkeys looked at each other. Nothing other than a shared confusion passed between them, as far as Bliss could see. When Eamonn slowly shook his head, Bliss thought it was genuine. ‘She definitely didn’t mention any of that to us,’ he said. ‘My wife and I have obviously chatted about what happened many times since Prim ran away. Whether you believe it or not, Inspector Bliss, neither of us saw it coming. It was a huge shock when we found her things missing and her room empty that morning. Yet… at the same time, I think we both understood.’

  ‘You mean she was scared of having her appeal for asylum rejected.’

  ‘She was. We weren’t allowed to sit in on any of her interviews with the authorities, but Prim was shaken after every one of them. She told us they kept badgering her about the reason why she left Somalia, insisting she must have done so willingly in order to improve her life prospects here in Britain. Well, you met her. Did she come across as that kind of person to you?’

  ‘No,’ Bliss said, recalling the timid girl he had spent some time with immediately after her rescue. ‘But we can never truly know a person. Not deep down. Like you, my impression of her was of someone reserved and meek, but a young girl who was also determined to make a go of things in this new world she found herself in. I suspect she came into contact with other Somalians who gave her a way out – most likely down to London to settle into a community in which she could disappear.’

  Nodding furiously, Dottie Wilkey set down her own mug and wiped away a stray tear. ‘Prim was a sweetheart. Never gave us a moment of concern. She was polite, helped out around the house, and above all she was kind. We would have missed her however she’d left us, but it did hurt that she chose to go without saying goodbye.’

  ‘I suspect she thought she might not be able to leave you both if she did that. I imagine it was the only way she could leave.’

  Eamonn reached out a hand and gently squeezed his wife’s fingers. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help. In terms of friends, Prim never had many. But she did talk about somebody she’d met in town one day who’d also been trafficked. I remember her coming home and telling us about this young woman, and thanking God that she had been rescued from that life before it had even started.’

  ‘Did she say what kind of life she meant?’ Chandler asked, beating Bliss to it.

  ‘No. Not really. We got the impression she was referring to the things we sometimes see on the TV, where girls are trafficked into the country and used as… slave labour, in various ways.’

  ‘Did she happen to tell you this girl’s name?’

  Dottie’s brow furrowed. ‘It might have been Sara. I seem to remember Prim saying she was originally from Croatia.’

  Bliss sucked on his bottom lip. It sounded as if the girl had used her real name, not the name she was known by if she did indeed work for an agency. ‘Are you quite certain? No other name? No surname, or perhaps a nickname?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t even be sure it was Sara.’

  ‘That’s okay. It might still be helpful. Thank you.’ He turned to her husband. ‘Mr Wilkey? Anything jog your memory here?’

  Eamonn’s shake of the head was firm. ‘It was Dottie who told me about it. That’s not something Prim would have felt comfortable discussing with me.’

  Bliss felt his initial excitement deflating like a punctured tyre. He managed to raise a feeble smile. ‘I understand. We’ll see if that leads us anywhere.’

  The two detectives finished off their drinks before thanking the couple and leaving the house. It was a large property, clean and tastefully furnished; Bliss imagined the pair provided a warm and inviting home for their charges. He was grateful to them, because he knew how much girls like Primrose needed that kind of stability in their lives.

  ‘Where now?’ Chandler asked him as they settled back into the car.

  ‘It’s not much to go on. I doubt the name will get us very far, but we could ask Marta Lsenko. Even if she doesn’t know the girl, she might be able to ask around for us, given they probably move in the same circles.’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I was thinking we could have someone go through the adverts. It’s not much, but how many Croatians can there be in the city?’

  ‘More than you imagine. But the majority will have come across when the borders opened up, looking to find work. Legit rather than trafficked.’

  ‘Probably worthy of following up on, I’d say.’

  Bliss agreed. ‘Even if John and Glen come up empty-handed, at least we have a name to work with. Primrose might be gone for good, but she may well have left enough of herself behind to help us out.’

  Twenty-Three

  Hunt and Ashton had discovered nothing of interest, although they both mentioned the antipathy shown by many neighbours towards the halfway house.

  ‘I had a lot of people talking to me about boats out at sea or creating more camps to house them,’ DC Hunt said as they drove back to Thorpe Wood.

  ‘Same here,’ Ashton said. ‘Some people reckoned their presence keeps the house prices in the neighbourhood artificially low. Not that anyone was being racist, of course…’

  ‘That halfway house is literally a stone’s throw from some of the most expensive property in the entire city,’ Chandler said. ‘Westwood Park Road is one of the best addresses you can have in Peterborough, and the surrounding streets are full of people who think living close by gives them an air of superiority.’

  Bliss glanced across at her. ‘Ouch! Sounds as if you speak from experience, Pen.’

  Chandler casually hiked a shoulder. ‘I dated a lad from this area. Only went to his place a couple of times, but his mother virtually ran around after me with a dustpan and brush as if the skin I shed was tainted. His father spoke down to me. That was the first example of mansplaining I came across, I think, only it was probably more like poorsplaining.’

  ‘Wealthy people make me sick,’ Hunt said, and to Bliss the flat statement came across as bitter. ‘Walking around with their noses in the air, thinking they’re so much better than those of us who actually do the work.’

  Bliss eyed him in the rear-view mirr
or. ‘They’re not all like that, John. Just like us cops are not all racist thugs in need of defunding. I’ve met a good many wealthy people who are thoroughly decent, in the same way that I’ve met many people living in poverty who are complete arseholes.’

  Hunt stared out of the window and made no comment. Bliss had never been able to work the man out. His colleague seemed to have a chip on his shoulder about everyone and everything. A man with a permanent grudge and an attitude bordering on the paranoid. He could be good fun during after-shift drinks, and although he seldom did more than he was asked, he did at least have a diligent approach to his job. You didn’t have to be liked to be respected. Bliss knew something about that himself, which is why he’d always make room for John Hunt.

  After dropping their two colleagues off at HQ to wade through the adverts and agencies in search of Croatian girls, Bliss and Chandler headed out to Serpentine Lake. Before leaving Mayors Walk, Bliss had called Marta Lsenko’s number. She was free, but despite the inclement weather had insisted on meeting outdoors. When Bliss parked up, they spotted Lsenko sitting on a nearby bench. Daylight was fading rapidly around them, and lights began to spring into life as the evening approached.

  The three walked while they talked, a fine drizzle settling over them. The young woman wore a full-length grey coat, with a teal scarf wrapped around her neck and pulled up tight against her throat. Both Bliss and Chandler had the top buttons of their jackets fastened, hands thrust deep into pockets. Little clouds of breath preceded them along the paved pathway.

  Initially, Lsenko was dismissive; not aggressively so, but she wasn’t one for small talk and simply couldn’t think of who they might mean when they mentioned Sara. The girl came across as brusque even when she didn’t mean to be. Chandler urged her to think longer and harder, reminding her that it could be important.

  ‘If she and Haweeo became close, she must have been an approachable sort. You remember Haweeo, Marta?’

  ‘Of course. How could I not?’ Lsenko seemed affronted by the question. ‘She call herself Primrose. You spend time like that with a person, you never forget their name or their face.’