20 - A Rush of Blood

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘Cool?’

  ‘That’s best way I can describe him. Together; in control of himself. He was very calm, stood very still, his eyes they were steady, deep blue. He wasn’t all that big, but you could not imagine fucking with this guy, not ever. You know what I mean?’

  ‘I reckon I do. Did Valdas introduce him?’

  ‘Yeah. He said that this was his cousin, Tomas’s younger brother, and that he had come over from Lithuania to . . . how he put it? . . . to take care of a few things.’

  ‘And how did he seem when he was telling you this?’

  ‘Seem?’

  ‘Was he relaxed, was he happy, was he nervous?’

  ‘He tried to look normal, but he wasn’t. He looked uncomfortable. It was right tense in there, in fact.’

  ‘Did Jonas say anything?’

  ‘Aye. First off, he tell us we could call him Jonas, or colonel, or even Jock since we were in Scotland. One or two of the lads laughed; he didn’t. Then he said he wasn’t pleased to be here, that he had his own business to run in Vilnius and that was where he should be. But he said that his older brother had asked him for help and he was bound to give it. He said that some of us had been very stupid, and that we had no idea of the bother we’d caused. He told us that because of this he was now in charge of all of us, and that we would do what he said, without question.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  Ramanauskas frowned. ‘Like I told you, he’s a guy you take seriously. We all sat quiet . . . apart from Linas. He jumped up, got in his face and said, “Why the fuck should we? Tomas never interferes with us, so why should we answer to you?” Jonas just looked at him for a bit, and then he hit him. I don’t know what with, for he was too quick; all I know is that big Linas was on the floor gasping for breath like a fish out of water. “Any other questions?” Jonas asked, but of course there were none.’ He shuddered. ‘If you say he killed Linas, I’ll believe you.’

  ‘Was that the end of the meeting?’ asked Stallings.

  ‘Not quite. He said the new girls had to go; that we were to get them out of the parlours. He told me to keep them at my place until arrangements were made to move them out.’

  ‘But you didn’t take Anna Romanova to your place.’

  ‘I never had her there; I could only take the eight. She always stayed with Linas.’

  ‘Where she was drugged and raped,’ McIlhenney said, slowly. ‘Did you drug all nine? Was that how you forced them to prostitute themselves?’

  ‘Only the two youngest; they were fresh meat, to fill up the van. The older lassies were all on the game back in Tallin; Valdas found them there and offered them more money to work for him, simple as that. None of them were junkies. Right at the start Valdas said there would be no drugs in the parlours, and that anyone who tried it would be moved offshore.’

  Stallings frowned. ‘Moved offshore?’

  Ramanauskas grinned. ‘One of his wee sayings from the old days. About two miles offshore, he meant, weighted down.’

  ‘So when you fed those kids dope you were endangering yourself?’

  ‘No. Valdas told me to do it; he said it was OK. They were always fixed at my place anyway, never at work.’

  ‘So when did Jonas take them,’ asked McIlhenney, brusquely, ‘and where to? Or are they offshore as well, poor kids?’

  ‘Jonas never took them. On Wednesday morning, about half ten, two women rang my door buzzer. It’s got a video camera, ken, so I could see them. I asked what they wanted and they said they were the removal firm.’

  ‘And you let them in, just like that?’

  ‘I guessed they’d come from Jonas. Did they no’?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ the superintendent admitted.

  ‘So they might have been connected to the other guy?’

  ‘Do you mean the man you all met in Bruntsfield?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Maybe they were, but that’s not relevant to this interview. Tell us what happened when you let the women in.’

  ‘They came up the stairs, and told me to tell the girls to get packed. I asked them where they were taking them. The older one told me to mind my own fuckin’ business.’

  ‘And you took that from her?’ Stallings queried.

  ‘If they were from Jonas, like I thought they were, too right. So I did as I was told. The girls had fuck all to pack, so it took no time at all. Then I’d to tell them to use the lav if they needed. Once they were all sorted, we took them downstairs two at a time.’

  ‘What do you mean “we”?’

  ‘The younger woman stayed upstairs; the older one and I took the first two lassies down and out through the back garden and intae the lane. They’d a mini-bus parked there. She stayed with them, I went back upstairs and took another four down, two at a time, then the second woman took the last pair and that was that.’

  ‘These two women,’ McIlhenney asked, ‘were they Lithuanian?’

  ‘No, Scottish.’

  ‘Then how did they communicate with the girls.’

  ‘A few of them speak quite good English by now, so no problem.’

  ‘Did they all go willingly?’

  Ramanauskas looked the superintendent in the eye. ‘These kids do what they’re told, mister.’

  ‘Describe the women for us.’

  ‘They were both flashy,’ he replied, ‘but hard in their eyes. Know what I mean? Dyed blond, heavy make-up. They were lookers though; I’d have seen to the younger one, for sure; maybe even the older one too. The younger one wore jeans and a bomber jacket; the other dark slacks and a furry thing.’

  ‘Ages?’

  ‘I’m no great wi’ women’s ages, but the older one’s probably in her forties, the other maybe ten years younger . . . or maybe more.’

  ‘Could they have been mother and daughter?’

  The Lithuanian frowned. ‘Aye,’ he exclaimed, ‘now you mention it, at a pinch they could.’ Pause. ‘But naw, they weren’t. They never spoke to each other much, but when they did, the younger one called the other one “Goldie”. She wouldn’t have done that if it had been her mammy, would she?’

  ‘Did they give you any clue where they were going?’

  ‘Not the faintest. And I never asked. For all I knew, they might have been moving them offshore. If they were, for sure I didna want to know.’

  Fifty-five

  ‘Two women?’ McGuire repeated.

  ‘That’s what Ramanauskas said,’ McIlhenney told him. ‘That and a lot more. Whatever went wrong in Tomas Zaliukas’s business life happened last week, for that’s when he sent for his brother. You know, up to now we’ve been looking for this Desperate Dan guy for Linas’s murder, but now I’m not so sure. When I was interviewing Marius I spun him a line about Jonas having taken care of him and of the Gerulaitases, taking revenge for his brother, but now I’m wondering whether it might just be true after all.’

  ‘But what about the girl’s statement? That points to him, doesn’t it?’

  ‘The girl was out of her scone, Mario. She might have heard Jonas rowing with Linas, not the other fella. He could have arrived and found him dead already.’

  ‘Would Jonas be capable of killing him, the way it was done?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Ramanauskas saw him in action; the two of them had a run-in before, apparently, and Jonas dropped him like a stone.’

  ‘Mmm,’ the head of CID murmured. ‘The boss did tell us he has a heavy-duty military background. Let’s prioritise him; put out a statement saying that we’re anxious to interview him.’

  ‘About the murders?’

  ‘No, let’s not blow it up. Just say we believe he’s in Scotland and need to talk to him about his brother’s suicide.’

  ‘We could get Crown Office permission to issue his mug shot.’

  ‘We don’t need it if he’s not officially a suspect. Use the picture, but play down the statement. Say we believe he may be in Scotland but may not know of his brother’s death. That should stop th
e press from getting too excited.’

  ‘OK. I’ll brief Royston.’

  ‘You better be quick,’ McGuire laughed. ‘He’ll be out the door any minute. The boss doesn’t like people whose minds are elsewhere.’

  ‘True. Where are you, by the way?’

  ‘I’m sitting in my car outside the Gerulaitis house. I had a text from Frances Kerr, the fire investigator, while I was in court, telling me she wants to see me on site.’

  ‘Did she say what it was about?’

  ‘She used the word “development”, but without the vowels. Whether it’s positive or negative, I’m about to find out.’

  ‘How did court go?’ asked McIlhenney.

  ‘Routine, as always; no plea or declaration and a remand in custody. No application for bail for us to oppose. Ken Green never showed up, though. The fiscal’s office had to get a duty solicitor to represent our man; not that he needed much. After his chat with us he was dead keen to be locked up.’

  ‘Funny, so was Marius. I’ve left Becky and Jack to take his statement. We’re going to do him for possession of heroin for the moment. Once Anna Romanova’s fit enough, we’ll put him in a line-up. If she can identify him, we’ll do him for trafficking as well.’

  ‘Maybe Green will turn up to defend him. I wonder where he’s got to?’

  ‘He’s probably decided to steer clear of this business. Handling the licensing for massage parlours is one thing; defending a pimp on a police attempted murder charge is something else again. Mario,’ McIlhenney murmured, ‘given what we know now, should we think about going to the court and having those licences revoked?’

  ‘That’s not our decision, mate; it’ll be for somebody with “Chief Constable” in their rank. But if we do that, we’ll need to be sure we get a result. At the moment, what we know and what we can prove are two different things. The only girl we have in our custody is Anna, and she was kept in Jankauskas’s flat.’

  ‘True. In that case we’d better find these two women that Marius told us about.’

  ‘Before they dispose of the witnesses?’ McGuire suggested.

  ‘I don’t want to think about that. Who do you think they are?’

  ‘Auntie Aggie and Katey; they have to be.’

  ‘Who the fuck are Auntie Aggie and Katey?’

  ‘Did you not read Desperate Dan when you were a kid? Go and look them up. I’m going to pick my way through the ashes.’

  The head of CID ended the call, and stepped out of his car. He took a pair of wellingtons from the back seat, pulled them on to replace his moccasins and walked round to the back of the house. Frances Kerr was standing in the garden, smoking a cigarette. ‘Jesus,’ the chief superintendent exclaimed, ‘I thought that would be a sacking offence in your job.’

  ‘Only if it contaminates a fire scene,’ she retorted. ‘Are you telling me that polis don’t smoke?’

  ‘This one doesn’t, nor any of his close colleagues. It’s not banned, but our boss disapproves, since we’re all required to be physically fit.’

  ‘So are we, but smoke’s part of our lives.’ She took a last draw, then ground the butt into the grass. ‘Come on and I’ll show you what I’ve found.’

  She led him through the conservatory and into the devastated kitchen, then on, until she came to a door at the far end. It was blackened but intact. She pushed it open; behind it, McGuire could see the remnants of what had been a stair. It had been replaced by a ladder. ‘Follow,’ said the investigator. She took the lead in descending, into a spacious area, brightly lit by temporary lamps.

  McGuire sniffed, and at the same moment felt glass under his feet. ‘Wine cellar,’ he said, a declaration rather than a question.

  ‘Spot on,’ Kerr conceded, ‘or it was. Everything’s gone now, every single bottle has either exploded or had its cork blown out.’

  ‘But how did the fire get down here?’ the head of CID asked. ‘The ceiling’s almost intact; surely it didn’t burn down the way.’

  ‘You’re not dumb, big boy, are you? It is possible that sparks dropped through and ignited this area, but that’s not what I think happened. Come on and I’ll show you.’ She led the way across the basement, to a frame where once there had been a door. ‘The dogs found this,’ she told him, as a preamble. ‘They’re worth their weight in Pedigree Chum, those two. Look.’ She stood back, to let him see inside a small chamber. In the centre of its concrete floor was a shapeless black mass, soaked and stinking.

  ‘This was a storeroom, of sorts,’ she said. ‘We found odds and ends among the debris, including four lengths of melted plastic . . . only they were just outside the door.’

  ‘Plastic?’

  ‘Yes. They might have been restraints, so your forensic people tell me. Pull-on handcuffs. The one thing I know for sure is that they’d been cut. Now,’ she continued, ‘see that black stuff? When I went over the scene at first I was a bit puzzled by the conservatory. I found the ashes of chairs, and a sofa, old-fashioned wooden furniture, but I didn’t find any upholstery residue. Finally I reasoned that since it was winter, they weren’t using the place, and they’d put all the cushions away somewhere. I don’t think that now. I believe that the couple could have been killed down here, by people who wanted to make it appear that they’d died in a fire.’

  ‘How? How was it done?’

  ‘The way I see it, they were tied with those restraints, hand and foot, the conservatory cushions were brought in here and ignited with petrol. It’s the simplest accelerant of all, and that’s what the dogs scented. I’ve looked at the soot on the walls. It tells me that the material was old, and not flame resistant at all. It would have been lethal. As I see it, Mr and Mrs Gerulaitis were shut in here, hog-tied and helpless. The area would have filled with smoke in seconds and they’d have died within minutes. When they were, the room was opened. They were dragged out, the cuffs were cut off them and left where I found them. The victims were then carried upstairs, placed by the locked door and the main fire was started, in the way I’ve described. Meanwhile down in the cellar, the original fire was left to burn, to make us think, as we did until you questioned it, that there was only one seat, upstairs. To make absolutely sure, they should have left the door open at the top of the stairs, but maybe they couldn’t, maybe there was too much smoke, so they took a chance that the floor would burn through, as it did, although not completely.’

  ‘How did they get out?’

  ‘I’d suggest that they locked the door behind them and went out through the conservatory. We’ve only found one key, and we’ve looked all through the house.’

  ‘Jesus. How many people are we talking about?’ McGuire asked

  ‘Given that there were two victims,’ the investigator replied, ‘you’d normally assume that there were at least two of them as well, but I suppose it’s conceivable that one determined person could have done it. One thing’s certain, though; however many there were, one of them had to have been an expert. The fire upstairs was started in exactly the way I described this morning, by a damp towel placed on exposed wiring. No layman could improvise that. You’re probably looking for someone with a degree, or a qualification in electrical engineering, and with a knowledge of chemical reactions as well, given how they were killed.’ She paused. ‘Or maybe you’re looking for a fireman.’

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  She smiled. ‘None that I know.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Frances,’ said McGuire. ‘Would it stand up in court?’

  ‘Ah, that I don’t know for sure. We can’t put the dogs in the witness box, and we can’t prove that those plastic ties were used on the victims, but we can identify that smoke in their lungs, and show where it came from. Some of it did come up through the floorboards, though; I’ve established that too.’

  ‘But can you rule out accident?’

  ‘In my own mind, yes. In the minds of a majority on a jury . . . I’d have to wait and see.’

  Fifty-six

  The last thing
that George Regan wanted was a call-out at five o’clock. He had spent the day in the CID office in Haddington completing an itemised list of goods stolen from the Witches’ Hill pro shop in the second robbery, and had just submitted it for circulation to police forces throughout the country. He knew what would be coming his way once it hit the intelligence network: wisecracks and innuendo from all over Scotland. Not that they were needed. None of his senior officers seemed to be blaming him for not anticipating a possible return visit by the thieves . . . a fresh tyre track matching one left the previous day had been found at the scene that morning . . . but he was, for sure. The presence of the Marquis and of Proud Jimmy had made for one of the most embarrassing moments of his professional life, and all he wanted to do was go home to his wife and, whether she was up for it or not, insist that she spruce herself up so that they could take the train to Edinburgh for a meal in his favourite Chinese, the Kweilin in Dundas Street, with a nice bottle of Chablis, or maybe two if he could persuade Jen to share them with him, and afterwards . . .

  Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the notion of getting your wife drunk in the hope of sex was just too pathetic, repugnant even. Maybe instead he’d ask Lisa McDermid if she was up for a night out; sometimes he thought he saw a look in her eye that suggested she might be. Then again, maybe he’d take the easy option; go down to the Longniddry Inn and get quietly blootered. But that wouldn’t get his end away, though, would it?

  ‘Hey, Lisa,’ he began.

  She looked across their facing desks and smiled. He wondered if she had been reading his mind, or if . . . Christ, he hadn’t been thinking aloud, had he? ‘Yes, George,’ she replied . . . and that was when the phone rang.

  He snatched it up, annoyed at the shattering of the moment. ‘Yes,’ he snapped.

  ‘If that’s what it’s going to be like, I might as well not bother,’ said Marty White, the station inspector.

  ‘Not bother with what?’ Regan said, more gently.

  ‘Asking you and Lisa if you’d do me a big favour, one that’s going to be a real pain in the arse for you.’

  ‘No, maybe you shouldn’t. But go ahead anyway; what is it?’