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 brother
s 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.
T.J. was still sitting where he’d left him, nursing a cup of coffee so strong it would have had most people bouncing off the walls. He gazed down at the boy.
“We need to leave, T.J. Are you sure that you’re up for this?”
The young man wiped a tear off his thin cheek. “Better that I do it than my mum. It would kill her.” Fresh tears followed. “It will kill her anyway, but at least she won’t have to see Bobby like that.”
Jake’s voice softened. “But you will, so be sure you can cope with it.”
He knew it was a platitude. How could anyone know if they could cope with something when they’d never experienced it before? Life was one long series of shocks, most of them unpleasant, like watching his grandfather being put into a wooden box. Without waiting for T.J.’s answer Jake led the way to the car and they began their short journey to the morgue.
****
They arrived at the lab the same time as Annette and Ken and rushed to keep the relatives separate as they agreed the order of the I.D.s. Jake nodded Annette on.
“You’d better go first. You have a plane to catch.”
Annette suddenly remembered that she was off to London that evening and glanced at the clock. It was three-thirty and Nicky had booked them on the five-thirty flight. She only had an hour before check-in!
“Thanks. I’ll tell Doctor Winter that you’re waiting.”
Five minutes later the bereaved father was outside the viewing room with Ken, waiting for John to bring his daughter’s body up from the morgue, and Annette was on the road to collect Nicky and catch their plane. She was convinced that Tomasz Boraks hadn’t harmed his daughter at any age, so hopefully the others would find out who had.
Boraks’ reaction at the sight of his dead daughter left Ken in no doubt of his innocence and the full tragedy of her death. She was his only relative in the world so what would happen to him now? Only good things if they followed the instructions that Annette had left.
The next viewing was heart-breaking in a different way. If the sight of a father mourning his child was dreadful, the sight of a twenty-year-old mourning his eighteen-year-old sibling was, if possible, even worse. Terence Joseph McDonagh stood beside his little brother, stroking his hair and repeating “it’s my fault” in a keening tone. After five minutes Jake could watch no more and he entered the viewing room to guide the young man out. He found him a chair and hunkered down in front of it while John watched them both from behind the glass, knowing that Jake’s own bereavement must be making the event almost intolerable for him.
It was, but in some ways it put his loss in perspective as well. Yes, he’d lost his grandfather but at least he’d lived a long, full life; what life had Bobby McDonagh had? A teenage boy who’d had his whole future snuffed out. What life had any of their three victims experienced? Fifty-three years between them and now all gone. The pathologist watched as Jake’s empathy was replaced by anger, the change echoed in his posture as he rose.
John had phoned Craig when Boraks had arrived for the I.D. Now he entered, tapping his friend on the shoulder to say that he was there.
“Both of them?”
John nodded.
“So we have all three I.D.ed.”
“Sam Beech sixteen, Elena Boraks nineteen, and now Robert, Bobby McDonagh, eighteen years old.” John shook his head. “What a bloody waste.”
Craig didn’t disagree. He indicated Jake. “How’s he holding up?”
“Pretty well, actually. I thought this might have been hard on him, what with his granddad, but it actually seems to be helping.”
Craig smiled, unsurprised by Jake’s stoicism.
“He’s a good officer and with Annette away for a few days we could do with his help.”
John gestured through the glass to where Andy was leaning against a windowsill. It looked like the only thing keeping him vertical.
“What’s he like? Seems a bit lazy.”
Craig shrugged. “He’s trying to be cool. Probably watched too much Starsky and Hutch like us.”
John was sceptical. “Like you, you mean. I was always in a library.”
Craig conceded the point. “Anyway, he’s got a good rep for closing cases. He just doesn’t do himself any favours by the way he behaves sometimes, especially with female officers.”
“Lecherous?”
“More like God loves a trier. To be really lecherous he’d have to get past saying hello. That’s usually all it takes for them to walk away.”
John smiled with the wisdom of a newly married man. “Find him a woman then. It’ll be a service to mankind.”
As Jake led T.J. towards the exit Craig rapped the glass, beckoning them back.
“Take Mr McDonagh to the C.C.U. relatives’ room and interview him please, Jake.”
The sergeant gave a nod. “Just where I was heading.” He glanced at their sleep walking D.C.I. “And D.C.I. Angel?”
“Don’t worry about him. I have something that will wake him up. Where’s Annette by the way?”
“Gone to collect Nicky for their flight.” He indicated a small office. “Ken’s in there with Mr Boraks.”
“Fine.” Craig beckoned Andy to follow him to the small room where Ken was handing a stunned looking Tomasz Boraks a cup of tea. He called Ken outside and turned to them both.
“OK, we now have all three victims I.D.ed., but that’s all we have.” He stopped abruptly, noticing that Carmen wasn’t there. “Where’s Carmen, Ken?”
Ken winced in embarrassment. “Back at base. She and Annette had words, so Annette and I went to see Mr Boraks instead.”
Craig rolled his eyes, knowing that another discussion with Carmen was looming. Annette would never ground someone without good cause.
“OK. Andy, you and Ken sort out Mr Boraks with a family liaison officer. He looks dreadful so I don’t want him left alone––”
Ken cut in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but you should see the dump he’s been living in. His daughter was his only family and she took care of the shopping and his pension. If she’s not around…well, he already neglects himself.”
Craig nodded. He’d spotted the elderly man’s neglect immediately. “Get him an emergency social care placement and when he’s feeling up to it interview him properly. I need to know if he had any idea of his daughter’s lifestyle, contacts, anything that might help.”
“He said she worked in a shop on the Ormeau Road called SuperMark.”
“Get Davy to check it out. OK, we also have a name for our first male victim and Jake’s following that up now. Andy, keep oversight of the cases today and utilise Carmen, Ken and Jake on digging deeper into everyone’s lives. Keep me up to speed with whatever you find out and tell Carmen she’s to stay in the office until I get a chance to speak to her.”
Andy had been nodding lethargically, now he asked a question. “What’s Liam doing?”
Craig smiled; knowing that whatever he was doing it would be something good. “He’s following up some hunch; we’ll find out more at the briefing.” He glanced at
his watch wondering if Annette would make her flight. “Right, it’s after four so get on with it and I’ll see you both at the ranch in an hour. Remember that we’ve no Nicky for a few days so call me directly for anything you need.”
****
Liam’s curry had disappeared two hours earlier, leaving a hole in his stomach that needed to be filled. A garage-bought pie did the trick and as he chomped his way through it he thought about the case; the meal mundane but his thoughts less so. They were of dead languages and long ago times, before reporters and cameras had stripped the world of all its mystery.
Aloysius had been the Christian Brother’s name; Brother Aloysius McGovern, Bachelor of Arts. He could picture him now in his black cassock, hair flying as he raced down the parqueted corridors on his way to class. He’d been young, nearer their age than any of the other staff, and fit, as alive on the Gaelic field as he’d been telling tall tales in class. One of the lads. It had given him credibility with his class of teenage boys, as had his desire not to use the strap on every errant youth.
He’d taught them history, religion and Latin and had often mixed the three, livening up the boring verbs and declensions with tales of daring-do from centuries before. They’d suspected that not every story was true of course, but no-one had really cared. Lessons became half learning, half adventure, as Aloysius painted pictures of combat and intrigue that had made them want to race to class.
Liam swallowed a final mouthful of pastry and balled up the wrapper, sliding down the car window to pot it in a nearby bin. He checked the time then reclined for ten minutes’ more reverie.
One of Aloysius’ stories had always stuck with him; not Roman but later, part of medieval history, Roman Catholic to be precise. But not modern day Catholic with its bright churches and cheerful priests who cared if their congregation liked them and wanted to be their friends. No, this story was old school. Hell fire and damnation, men in rich regalia sweeping through darkened corridors at night. Corridors lit by flaming torches, leading to iron-doored cells where unfortunates languished under lock and key.
The Sect (The Craig Crime Series) Page 12
