Of course he did. He was addicted to these clandestine meetings. They were what had destroyed his marriage, because destroyed it was. Denise had told him that this time she wasn’t taking him back. He’d gone for help after she’d caught him the first time, so when it had happened again, the sense of betrayal had been too much. Dan understood her position entirely and he was racked with guilt. He’d let down God, although in truth, his faith had taken so many knocks over the years it was now barely a shadow of what it had once been. More importantly, he’d let down Denise and the girls, the only three people in the world who truly mattered to him, and it was eating him up inside.
And yet … And yet even now here he was on this site looking for the same kind of meaningless meetings that had got him into this position in the first place.
‘Definitely,’ he wrote. ‘When were you thinking?’
Her real name was Vicky, and as he waited for her reply he clicked on her profile. She had five photos as well as a very short bio stating that she was after no-strings sex, preferably on a regular basis. There’d be no regular basis for Dan. Once he’d had one meeting he never went back for a second. The women on these sites never gave him the satisfaction he was after. This girl looked pretty, though. Thirty-two. No kids. Her photos more tasteful than the norm, showing a glimpse of what was to come rather than putting everything up there on offer, like some did. They’d been chatting on here and WhatsApp for over a week now, and she seemed both friendly and sane, which wasn’t always a common combination. If nothing else, she’d make him feel less empty for a short time.
‘Friday nite?’ came the reply.
Two nights away. Even if Hugh Manning turned up in the next forty-eight hours, Dan was still sure he’d have the time to fit in an illicit meeting. And she only lived a short Tube ride away in Crouch End.
‘Sounds good to me,’ he typed. ‘Do you want to meet for a drink first?’
‘Yup. C if we fancy each other LOL XXX.’
Her text-speak grated on him but he wasn’t going to let that get in the way.
‘I bet we will,’ she added. ‘U look hot in your fotos.’
‘So do you,’ he typed, feeling that first stirring of excitement. He was going to add something a little more pornographic but decided against it. He was tired, and that could wait.
He asked if she knew a pub in Crouch End called the Maynard Arms, and when she said she did, they agreed to meet there at eight.
‘U can come back to mine if we like each other,’ she wrote. ‘Am only near. C U then.’
He wrote back that he was looking forward to it before logging off.
With a sigh he stood up, went to the window and looked down at the street below. There were still people about, including a large group outside the kebab house on the other side of the road. He hated this place. A one-bedroom flat above a pound shop, it was a far cry from the small but cosy family home two miles away in Muswell Hill they’d been in for the past seven years, but it was the only place he could get where they were willing to accept a rolling month rental. He’d been here for two months now and with each passing day he knew that the hope of any reconciliation was fading.
During that time Dan had thrown himself into his work, but even that had proved to be frustrating. For the past five years he’d been the man in charge of investigating the Kalaman organization. He’d devoted his life to it, which hadn’t done much for his marriage either. And yet Cem Kalaman was still happy, free and married, and, most importantly of all, continuously one step ahead of everyone.
Who the hell said crime didn’t pay?
Ten
I dreamed of death and terror, as I so often did, and somewhere in the grey before dawn my past and present collided in a nightmare more vivid than any I can remember.
When I was a boy aged seven, I lost my whole family. My father was a drunk and a philanderer. He was also a monster. One cold February evening he came home after days away from the house, and stabbed my mother to death. He then killed my two brothers and would have killed me too, but I managed to escape from him by hiding first in a cupboard while he stalked the house, calling my name, and then by jumping from a first-storey window after he’d set the house on fire.
I’ve had many dreams in which my father chases me through the corridors of our old family home, but over the years they’ve faded in their intensity. In this dream, it wasn’t my father chasing me but men in long black hooded robes holding knives. As I fled from them, I kept tripping over other bodies – not those of my own long-gone family but of young dead women, their faces cold and pale, and their expressions mournful, as if they couldn’t understand why they’d had to die so young. Every time I tripped and fell, the killers got closer, their knives swishing through the air. My legs felt like they had weights attached to them, but still I ran, turning corners into new corridors, completely lost now. Then a door appeared and I flung it open, just in time to see my father standing right in front of me, a huge knife raised in both hands above his head. He grinned, and the knife fell …
I awoke covered in sweat. The clock on the bedside table said 4.45 a.m. I knew there was no way I was going back to sleep so I got up and went for a run instead, forcing the fear back down.
London wakes early. Lights were on in the blocks of flats, and the bin lorries and delivery trucks were already out. Anyone could ambush me here, I thought. All they’d have to do was step out of the shadows, face covered, and pull the trigger. Sometimes I wondered why Cem Kalaman hadn’t put out a hit on me. I knew he wanted me dead. Three months ago he’d turned up at my apartment with a bunch of goons to give me a warning beating. It hadn’t worked out quite like he’d hoped though, and I wondered at what point they’d be back. I was definitely a thorn in his side, but maybe not a big enough one.
Although I was hoping that would soon change.
When I got to HQ at eight a.m., having run nine miles and had a huge breakfast at a café just down the road from my apartment block, the place was already busy and I was feeling a lot better, the terrors of the night having faded in the sunshine of a glorious July morning.
Dan was in the office we shared along with our two admin staff, and as soon as he saw me he got to his feet. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Sheryl wants us in her office.’
Sheryl Trinder was standing behind her desk talking on the phone when we came in. She motioned for us to take a seat and we waited while she finished the call.
‘This looks promising,’ she said, putting down the phone and picking up a newspaper that had a picture of Hugh Manning on its front cover underneath the headline ‘Double Killer Suspect Linked to Bone Field Murders’.
Manning was, I thought, an irritatingly good-looking guy with a round, cherubic face and an air of entitlement that seemed to spring right off the page. The good thing was his was the kind of face people would remember.
‘I didn’t think we were going to mention the Bone Field connection,’ I said.
‘Because he’s wanted for two killings already, legal thought we were justified in putting it in,’ said Sheryl. ‘It’ll be a big help too. Mentioning the Bone Field ensures front-page coverage.’ She sat down. ‘In the meantime, I want you both to take a look at this.’ She handed an A4 photo to Dan, who looked at it then handed it to me. ‘This woman is Tracey Burn’s half sister, Martine Vincent, and her closest living relative. She lives in Finsbury Park and we had local officers round there late last night to take a DNA swab to see if it matches any of the remains found at the farm in Wales. We should have the results imminently.’
The photo was of a woman in her thirties with dyed blonde hair and a hard face who looked nothing like the woman in the DVD. I handed it back to Sheryl, impressed with her efficiency. I had no doubt she’d been here late last night coordinating the DNA test with the local CID to make sure it was done without delay.
‘I’ve also spoken to one of my former colleagues at Hammersmith,’ she continued. ‘He confirms that they last had contact with Tracey B
urn in October 2004 when they were called out to a domestic violence incident at the address she shared with her boyfriend. So she went missing at some point between then and July 2005 when the DVD was found. The boyfriend, Paul Moffatt, is still in the area. He was jailed in 2009 for child cruelty along with his partner at the time for violently abusing her three-year-old son. The child survived but his injuries were bad enough for Moffatt to serve six years for it. He’s currently out on licence and back in Hammersmith.’
I felt the hackles go up on my back. Because of my own experience, I’d never been able to tolerate cruelty to kids. Though I kept my expression neutral, I think Sheryl must have spotted something in it.
‘I want the two of you to interview Martine Vincent and Paul Moffatt. I know Moffatt for one will be uncooperative, but I don’t want any strong-arming of him. As I’ve made clear to you before, Mr Mason, we do things by the book here. And believe it or not, it does get results.’
I wasn’t sure I did believe it but I told her I understood.
‘There’s something else as well, Mr Mason,’ she continued, looking down at some notes in front of her. ‘You accessed the file of a Mr Ugo Amelu on the PND last night at 10.43 p.m.’
I nodded. ‘That’s right, ma’am. Amelu was a close business associate of Kristo Fisha, the man who had the DVD of Tracey Burn’s murder. Fisha had another close associate too, a Terry Howes, but he died in mysterious circumstances a couple of months after Fisha. It’s possible both men were killed over the DVD – I mean, the timing’s very coincidental – so I figured that Amelu might know something, and be worth talking to.’ I looked at her. ‘I assume from the fact you know I looked at his record that he’s already under investigation for something else.’
Sheryl nodded. ‘He is. It’s a very sensitive role involving another section of the NCA who were flagged as soon as you accessed his details. I got a call from the senior officer involved this morning wanting to know our interest.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘I guess our interest is he’s probably the only person who might be able to shed some light on where that DVD came from. You interviewed him at the time, Dan. Do you remember him?’
Dan didn’t look too happy, and I guessed it was because I had been working on the case without discussing it with him.
‘Yeah, I remember Ugo Amelu,’ he said. ‘He used to pimp out girls supplied to him by Fisha. I was one of the people who questioned him about the killing of Fisha and his girlfriend. He claimed to know nothing about it and had a cast-iron alibi. He was in Nigeria when the two of them were murdered.’
‘So you didn’t think he had anything to do with it?’ Sheryl asked him.
Dan thought about it for a moment. ‘I remember thinking at the time his alibi was convenient. He only flew out a few days before the bodies were discovered, and he booked his tickets at the last minute. So maybe he did know something about the murders – like who committed them. And maybe he knew something about the DVD as well. But the point was, we already had him bang to rights on trafficking for the purposes of exploitation, and we offered him the chance to cooperate on the Fisha case in return for a reduced sentence, and he still said he knew nothing. It was a complete “no comment” interview.’
‘I still think he’s got to be worth speaking to,’ I said. ‘Can you put us in touch with the team who are investigating him, ma’am?’
She looked at Dan. ‘What do you think, Mr Watts?’
Dan shrugged. ‘I suppose it can’t do any harm. But if he wasn’t talking then, I don’t see why he’d start talking now.’
‘It depends what the investigation is,’ I said. ‘And what charges he’s facing.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ said Sheryl.
She was about to say something else when her desk phone rang. She motioned for us to stay, then picked up, listening while the person at the other end spoke.
When she replaced the receiver, her expression was tinged with sadness.
‘That was the result of the DNA test on Tracey Burn’s half sister, Martine Vincent. It’s a 99.998 per cent match with remains found at the farm in Wales. That means Tracey Burn was definitely one of our victims.’
Eleven
It had been with a rather unwelcome sense of surprise that Tina Boyd realized she was falling in love with Ray Mason, which made her feel guilty that she was keeping a secret from him. But she had no choice. She’d told Ray she was out in France doing some work on a divorce case she’d taken on in her role as a private detective, but in reality she was here to see a woman who was already dead.
Three months earlier, Tina had agreed to help Ray on an inquiry and had gone to France to interview Charlotte Curtis, a British ex-pat who’d been a close friend of Kitty Sinn, the young woman who’d gone missing in Thailand in 1990. Ray was convinced Charlotte knew something about Kitty’s disappearance, and it seemed that other people thought she did too – people who wanted to silence her. Tina and Charlotte had been forced to flee for their lives but Charlotte had been shot, and Tina had been informed afterwards by the French authorities that she’d died of her injuries. And that, as far as Tina could see, was still the official story.
Except a fortnight later, Charlotte had phoned Tina out of the blue to let her know that she was alive, recovering from her injuries, and now in witness protection. She swore Tina to secrecy, claiming that the French authorities had not wanted her to call but that she’d insisted.
Tina had been shocked to hear from her but was relieved to know that she was all right. She would have left it at that too. Charlotte had been targeted by Cem Kalaman because she’d been in possession of a hugely important secret: namely that the woman who’d gone to Thailand wasn’t Kitty, but her cousin, Lola Sheridan. On its own, though, this was nowhere near enough to put Kitty’s killers on trial so Tina had decided it was best for all concerned to leave Charlotte in peace somewhere in the anonymity of witness protection.
But then she’d received another call from Charlotte, who told her that she had new information about the case, something that she didn’t want to discuss over the phone. Would she mind coming out to Brittany to discuss it in person?
Tina might have been falling in love with Ray but her PI work had been dull these past few months, and she was pleased at the chance to get out of the office. Once again she’d been sworn to secrecy and given a number to call as soon as she arrived in St Malo.
Tina had called the number an hour ago. A man had answered and in heavily accented English had told her to go to the village of La Ville Oger and park in a lay-by opposite the church.
She was sat there now, in a pretty, semi-rural area just east of the village centre, her windows open, listening to birds singing in the nearby trees as she smoked a cigarette and waited. Every time Tina travelled – especially to calm, peaceful places like rural France – she wondered why she continued to live in England, which was home to so many dark memories for her. It wasn’t as if the lure of PI work kept her there. Not for the first time she entertained a fantasy of her and Ray buying their own home in a place like this, growing their own fruit and vegetables, sitting outside on the terrace at night breathing in the fresh clean air, with a couple of dogs and maybe, just maybe, kids. She was forty. There was still time if she hurried up about it. Obviously she’d never discussed it with Ray but she felt sure he’d make a good father, and it would give him a purpose that had been missing in his life, ever since his own family had been snatched away from him all those years ago. He had money too. It didn’t have to be a pipe dream. They could really do it.
She closed her eyes and pictured the scene. A kitchen full of kids; laughter; music playing; an arm around her shoulders …
A car pulled up behind her and a middle-aged moustached man in casual clothes stepped out.
‘Madame Boyd?’ he said as she got out to meet him. ‘Do you have any ID?’
Technically she was still very much a mademoiselle but she let it go.
‘I do. Do
you?’
He smiled. ‘Of course.’ He pulled out a Police Nationale warrant card and held it out while she looked. The face matched, and it looked genuine. It said his name was Alain Bassat.
Tina showed him her driving licence.
‘Thank you. If you don’t mind, we will continue the journey in my car. Yours will be safe here.’
She met his gaze. ‘I’d rather not. I make it a habit not to get into cars with strange men.’
He didn’t take offence but nor did he back down. ‘You appreciate, Madame Boyd, what happened to Madame Curtis. I understand you were there too. The French state believes she is still in danger from those who tried to kill her, so we need to protect her current location as much as possible. We didn’t actually think it was a good idea for you to come here but Madame Curtis was insistent, so we are following her wishes. However, we would like you to follow ours. That means coming with me, and I’m afraid also wearing a blindfold.’
Tina contemplated her options. She could have made a fuss but she’d come this far and didn’t want a wasted journey. She also didn’t think this was a trap. She’d developed a gut instinct for danger over many years, and her alarm bells weren’t ringing now. If someone wanted her dead they had no need to go to such elaborate lengths. They could just as easily wait outside her cottage and put a bullet in her there.
Even so she was still wary as she got in the car next to Bassat and put on the blindfold he gave her.
They drove for about fifteen minutes through quiet, winding roads. At first Tina asked a lot of questions about why Charlotte was in witness protection and how much the French authorities knew about the people who posed a threat to her, but it soon became clear that Bassat wasn’t keen on giving her meaningful answers so the journey concluded in silence.
Finally the car stopped and she was told she could take off the blindfold.
Blinking in the bright sunlight, Tina saw she was in a courtyard with a small farmhouse in front of her, and outbuildings on either side. There were no other cars and no obvious sign of people. Tree-lined fields stretched off into the distance.
The Hanged Man (Bone Field 2) Page 7
