Death in a Far Country

by Patricia Hall

  She turned back to her computer again with a sigh, only to be interrupted again within minutes by Tony Holloway, who approached her desk looking furious.

  ‘Did you know about these police inquiries?’ he asked. Laura looked at him blankly, her mind racing at the thought that Tony had somehow found out about Elena.

  ‘Inquiries about what?’ she asked, her mouth dry.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from a contact at United. Apparently the police have been up at Beck Lane interviewing the coach, and they’re planning to talk to the whole bloody team later. And I don’t just mean the police. I mean your bloody DCI boyfriend, in person, apparently. What the hell’s all that about? And why didn’t you tell me something like that was going on.’

  Laura flushed slightly, conscious of how her own guilt had misled her.

  ‘I might possibly have told you if I’d known the first thing about it,’ she said with some asperity. ‘Do I have to tell people on this wretched paper one more time? Michael Thackeray doesn’t confide in me about his cases and I don’t confide in him about my stories. I haven’t the faintest idea why he might want to talk to Paolo Minelli. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’ The latter statement was true, she thought, even if the first was not strictly accurate. She and Michael did often talk about their work, and judging by the dilemma she had just landed herself in over the Albanian girl, talking to him might have been the more prudent option this time too. But Tony was not to be mollified.

  ‘It seems a bit of a coincidence to me,’ he said. ‘You wheedle your way into Jenna Heywood’s good books, get invited to matches and parties, and then all of a sudden your bloody copper’s all over the team like a rash. Are you telling me there’s no connection?’

  ‘I’m telling you exactly that,’ Laura said. ‘I don’t know why Michael should want to talk to Minelli. As far as I know he’s investigating the murder of a girl who was found in the canal. Though you probably know as well as I do there’s some odd things going on at United at the moment. Perhaps someone’s complained to the police about that. Jenna Heywood certainly doesn’t seem to be very happy. But that’s your province, Tony. You’re supposed to have eyes and ears up at Beck Lane. I suggest you use them.’

  ‘What are you saying? I’m not doing my job properly?’

  Laura hesitated, knowing that she could not share Jenna’s confidences but quite keen that the harassment of a woman she liked should be exposed to the light of day, even if it had to be through the medium of Tony Holloway.

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, which came from my father, who still has some United shares, apparently,’ she said. ‘He reckons there’s quite a vicious auction going on to prevent Jenna getting the two thirds majority she needs to push through her plans for the club to leave Beck Lane. My dad’s been approached to sell, by more than one buyer, I think. You’d get a good story if you did some digging around in that area. I’ll give you his phone number in Portugal if you like.’

  But Tony still looked mutinous and Laura wondered again why he seemed to be taking so little professional interest in what seemed to her might turn out to be the death throes of the club. Once she had sorted out the problem with the Albanian girl she would talk to Jenna again, she thought, to see if she could persuade her to talk publicly about the pressure she was under. Suffering that sort of abuse in silence was self-defeating, but she guessed that until the big Chelsea match was over Jenna would be very reluctant to risk blackening the club’s name and possibly demoralising the players. Once the inevitable defeat in London arrived, things might be different.

  OK Okigbo was a stocky young man, with a cheerful round face, on whom an Italian suit sat uncomfortably. His physique gave little indication of his magical ability to dance and weave around opponents on the football pitch and crack the ball into the net from seemingly impossible angles with uncanny accuracy. More a potential Maradona than a Beckham, Mower thought, as Okigbo came into Paolo Minelli’s office that afternoon, accompanied by a white man the Sergeant did not recognise. To his surprise, Thackeray, who had commandeered the office for the rest of the day, evidently did.

  ‘We won’t be needing you, Mr Jenkins,’ the DCI said brusquely to Okigbo’s agent.

  ‘That right?’ Jenkins said, his own aggression barely under control. ‘Isn’t my client entitled to have anyone here to look after his interests, then?’ The smile on Okigbo’s face faded slightly as if he only now realised the seriousness of what was happening.

  ‘He’s entitled to have a solicitor with him if he feels he needs one,’ Thackeray said. ‘But I’m only here to ask some preliminary questions. Mr Okigbo isn’t under arrest or even under caution. We simply want to clarify some facts with him at this stage.’

  ‘What facts?’ Jenkins asked, his face flushed. ‘What’s this in connection with?’ Okigbo was watching him now, still relaxed but hanging on every word, as if he was used to Jenkins talking on his behalf.

  ‘It’s in connection with the death of a young woman we have reason to believe your client has met,’ Thackeray said. ‘Now, if you would leave, we would like to get on.’

  Okigbo flashed a pleading look at Jenkins, suddenly anxious, but the agent had paled under his tan, and he ran a hand around his collar as if it had become too tight. He put a hand on the footballer’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll get you a brief,’ he said. ‘D’you want him here now? What about your mate Emanuel? Isn’t he a lawyer? You can do that, you know. They can bloody wait.’ He glared at Thackeray but Okigbo shrugged.

  ‘I’ll answer their questions. I’ll be fine,’ he said, not sounding totally as if he believed the statement himself. As Jenkins spun on his heel and left, Thackeray waved the young man into the chair facing the desk and he sat down, leaning forward slightly as if to hear the police officers better. To Mower’s surprise, he was the one who spoke first.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he asked, smiling tentatively again. Thackeray looked grim as he introduced himself and Mower.

  ‘We met at the West Royd club last Sunday. You were with Emanuel Asida, as I recall.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember now,’ Okigbo said, leaning back in his chair again, suddenly looking much happier. ‘The policeman at the party looking for the name of a Nigerian girl. And are you still looking for her name?’

  ‘I’m afraid we are, Mr Okigbo. She’s dead and we still haven’t succeeded in identifying her. And now I have information that leads me to believe that you did know her although you said you didn’t when we met.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Okigbo said easily. ‘I would remember a Nigerian girl. There are not so many here. We would have lots to talk about, you know? Where she came from, who she knew, what she did in Lagos or wherever…’

  ‘You do understand the seriousness of what we are asking you?’ Thackeray asked, irritated by the footballer’s casual attitude. ‘We are investigating a murder here.’

  Okigbo looked at him blankly for a moment.

  ‘A murder?’ he said. ‘I didn’t understand that. A murder is serious, yes? This girl you are talking about is murdered?’

  ‘Let me take you back to another party,’ Thackeray said. ‘The party at West Royd after your game against Rochdale.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Rochdale. That was a very good game. I had a very good game.’ Okigbo smiled at the recollection.

  ‘Not the game, Mr Okigbo, the party,’ Mower broke in, as taken aback as Thackeray evidently was by OK Okigbo. ‘You were at that particular party at West Royd. Is that right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it was a good party too,’ Okigbo said with a satisfied smile and a slight giggle. ‘I had too much to drink that night, you know? Everyone was buying me drinks that night.’

  ‘And girls? Or a girl?’ Thackeray snapped, and for the first time he thought he saw a flash of anxiety, if not fear, in Okigbo’s eyes.

  ‘I understand you spent some time that night with a young black girl,’ Thackeray said. ‘There were two young girls at the party that night and one of them co
uld well have been the girl we have found dead. Have you anything to tell me about that?’

  Okigbo shook his head.

  ‘It is difficult to remember what happened,’ he said. ‘I had a lot to drink that night. Too much to drink.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t remember these girls?’

  The footballer shook his head again.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I think there was a very friendly girl. But she was not your Nigerian girl. She was not Nigerian. She said she was a Jamaican girl, a West Indian.’

  ‘You slept with her?’ Thackeray asked.

  ‘Yes, I think I did. I recollect I did.’

  ‘And you’re sure she said she was West Indian?’

  ‘We didn’t talk much,’ Okigbo said, looking slightly shamefaced now. ‘I was drunk. You know how it goes?’ Mower smiled slightly, knowing that his boss was the last person to know how that particular scenario went.

  ‘Did she tell you anything at all about herself?’ Thackeray ploughed on, ignoring the question.

  ‘Her name,’ Okigbo offered eagerly now. ‘She said she was called Grace. A nice name. A very nice name. She was a very nice girl.’

  ‘Was she a prostitute?’ Mower asked flatly, and Okigbo flinched slightly. ‘Were the two girls prostitutes?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Okigbo said. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Mr Okigbo,’ Mower pressed him. ‘You know how to define a prostitute. Did you pay this girl for sex that night or not. Did anyone pay either of the girls for sex?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Okigbo muttered. ‘I don’t remember. I was very drunk. I am ashamed at how drunk I was. Paolo was not happy about it.’

  ‘But Paolo didn’t complain about you sleeping with the girl?’

  ‘No, he didn’t complain about that,’ Okigbo whispered. ‘Was she really a whore?’

  ‘I would have thought you could have worked that out for yourself, Mr Okigbo. According to our information two girls were brought to the party by car, spent some time upstairs with you and several other players and were then taken away again. What does that sound like to you?’ Thackeray asked. The player shook his head, his eyes moistening and his bravado punctured.

  ‘I was very drunk,’ he said again.

  ‘Do you remember what arrangements you made with this girl, Grace?’

  ‘No, I truly don’t remember.’ Okigbo’s eyes flickered away from his interrogator again.

  ‘Had you ever met her before?’ Thackeray asked. ‘And I should tell you before you answer that question that the girl was pregnant and DNA can give us a good idea of who the father was.’

  ‘No, I had never met her before,’ Okigbo said fiercely. ‘If she was a whore… I don’t do that, not often. I don’t usually go with whores, sir. And that is God’s truth. I was brought up a good Christian back home. But now…’ He shrugged, looking momentarily desolate.

  ‘And she told you nothing about herself, apart from the fact that she was West Indian?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And did she consent freely to having sex with you?’ Thackeray asked, seeing the immediate shock on Okigbo’s face again and very aware of how little sympathy he felt for the man he was questioning.

  ‘You mean did I rape her?’ he asked, his eyes full of horror. ‘Of course I didn’t rape her. She was willing. Of course she was willing.’

  ‘It’s just that if a girl is forced into prostitution, as many are these days, and if they tell the man that they are with them under duress, then having sex with the girl could be construed as rape. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ Okigbo said very quietly. ‘I am not a fool, Chief Inspector. Before I became a footballer I had planned to be a lawyer.’

  ‘Did Grace suggest she was being forced?’ Thackeray persisted.

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ Okigbo said fervently. ‘There was nothing like that. I think… I believed she was willing. But I was drunk. I can’t be sure. She seemed like a nice girl. As far as I can remember.’

  ‘Did you see her again?’

  Okigbo hesitated and then he shrugged.

  ‘Yes, I saw her again. I was at the club with some other players one night last week and both girls were there again. I slept with her again. I liked her very much. That night she did ask me to lend her some money. I gave her a hundred pounds.’

  ‘Is this the girl?’ Thackeray asked, putting the drawing of the dead girl on the desk in front of Okigbo. The footballer nodded.

  ‘I think so, yes,’ he whispered.

  ‘Did you arrange to meet her again?’

  ‘No,’ Okigbo whispered, and Thackeray was almost certain he was lying.

  Thackeray hesitated before he spoke again, and Mower, guessing what was coming, looked at the young man opposite them with a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

  ‘There is one thing you need to know about these encounters with the girl you knew as Grace,’ Thackeray said. ‘If she is in fact the same girl who was found dead in the canal, you have to know that she was infected with the HIV virus. In the circumstances, you may want to have a medical check yourself. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Dear Jesus,’ OK Okigbo whispered, his eyes filling with tears. ‘What have I done?’

  Laura Ackroyd got away from work early that afternoon and arrived at the Ibramovic’s house just as a tall dark-haired girl in school uniform with a heavy bag over her shoulder was letting herself in through the front door.

  ‘Hi,’ Laura said. ‘You must be Itzak’s daughter.’

  The girl nodded gloomily.

  ‘Jazzy,’ she said. ‘You’re Elena’s friend?’ Laura nodded and to her surprise the girl turned and took hold of her arm in a bruising grip.

  ‘Can you find the men who did all that to her?’ she asked fiercely. ‘It’s disgusting what happened to her. Horrible. She told us all about it. And I bet my dad left the worst bits out when he translated.’

  Laura extricated herself gently from the girl’s hand.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But unless Elena is willing to help the police it may be difficult to pin the men down.’

  ‘But the police will send her back home. That can’t be right. They might come for her again. Or kill her. Or her family will.’ It was obvious that Jazzy had been overwhelmed by Elena’s story.

  ‘Let me talk to your mother,’ Laura said gently. ‘Something else has happened that I need to talk to Elena about, and then we’ll have to see what we should do next.’

  Jazzy pushed the front door open and went inside, calling for her mother as she did so. Lilijana came from the kitchen to greet her, closely followed by an anxious looking Elena.

  ‘We need to talk,’ Laura said, seeing the anxiety deepen in the eyes of all three of them.

  ‘Come in,’ Lilijana said quietly, waving Laura into the sitting room where she sat in a chair facing the other three, Elena between the mother and Jazzy, who put a protective arm around the other girl’s painfully thin shoulders. The two girls, not that much different in age, had obviously become friends.

  ‘Elena,’ Laura said, hoping that without Itzak to translate she could make herself understood. ‘The night you ran away you were not alone, were you? You ran away with someone else, another girl? There were two of you. You had a friend with you?’

  The girl looked at her with blank eyes for a moment before the tears came and she nodded.

  ‘She lost,’ she whispered. ‘Grace lost. Men come and I run. Grace run.’

  ‘Did they catch up with Grace?’ Laura asked, reaching out a hand as if to seize her by way of illustration and Elena nodded dumbly.

  ‘Was Grace a black girl?’ Laura asked, but Elena shook her head, not understanding.

  ‘Black? African?’ Understanding dawned and Elena nodded again.

  ‘African. Yes. She say African.’

  Laura sighed, knowing that the answer made Elena’s position untenable and her own probably even worse.

  ‘You must talk to the police, Elena,
’ Laura said. ‘Your friend Grace is dead.’

  Elena gave a slight moan and clutched Jazzy for support as tears flowed down her cheeks. Lilijana put a protective arm around both girls.

  ‘Go upstairs you two,’ she said. ‘Jazzy, look after her. I want to talk to Laura alone for a minute.’ The girls left, without glancing back, although Jazzy looked mutinous, and Lilijana stood up angrily to face Laura.

  ‘I need to talk to my husband,’ she said. ‘Elena needs to have things explained to her in her own language.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, any of you,’ Laura said. ‘There’s no choice, believe me. Either Elena comes back to Bradfield with me to talk to the police or I send the police here to talk to her. I’m sure you’ll be able to continue to look after her, if that’s what you want, but she’s a witness in a murder inquiry. She must tell them what she knows. There’s no choice. Honestly there isn’t.’

  ‘How did her friend die?’ Lilijana asked quietly.

  ‘She was pulled from the canal in Bradfield last week. She was attacked and then either fell, or was pushed, into the water. The police are looking for Elena as a witness. Her photograph is in the evening paper. I don’t suppose you see the Bradfield Gazette out here, but the two girls were caught on street cameras. She and her friend are quite recognisable. It won’t be long before someone sees her here and realises who she is. The photograph will get into the national papers, perhaps be on TV…’

  ‘They don’t think she did it?’ Lilijana asked, looking horrified at the idea.

  ‘No, I’m sure they don’t, but she may have seen who did,’ Laura said. ‘She must make a statement to the police.’

  The other woman nodded slowly.

  ‘Let her stay here,’ she said. ‘I will get Itzak to explain all this to her when he comes home. Give us a little time to prepare her, and then send your policemen here. It will be kinder that way.’