by John Harvey
‘Karen, good to see you again.’ Her handshake was swift and firm.
Leaving his post at the window, Burcher moved to the chair at the table’s head.
‘Getting to be something of a habit, Detective Chief Inspector, turning up bodies like that.’
‘Homicide, sir. Goes with the territory.’
Alex Williams stifled a laugh.
Burcher tensed but let it pass.
‘Purpose of this meeting, bring you up to speed. Alex, you know. Warren, too, I believe. And this …’ a quick nod of the head, ‘is Charles Frost from SOCA.’
‘Charlie,’ Frost said, helpfully.
‘Charlie’s keeping something of a watching brief.’
Like buggery, Karen thought. She’d had dealings with SOCA before. Double-dealings. It still rankled badly. With barely a nod in Frost’s direction, she took a seat alongside Cormack, across from the others. Mixed doubles.
‘Warren,’ said Burcher from the umpire’s chair. ‘Valentyn Horak, for Karen’s sake, why don’t you give us a little background?’
Cormack opened the folder in front of him, a quick glance as if to refresh his memory, then let it fall closed. ‘All right. Some of this, Karen, you’ll be familiar with, in principle anyway, the incursion of various crime organisations from the other side of what used to be the Iron Curtain. One good sniff at the joys of the free market and they take to it like ducks to water. Drugs, at first. That’s the big thing, still is, in a way. But with the fall in value of cocaine, for example, there’s been a move towards consolidation. Groups from the Ukraine, Albania, lesser players such as Moldova. Coming together for the common good. Theirs not ours. And with a certain sharing of resources, they’ve begun to diversify. People trafficking, that’s where a lot of the money is now. Migrant labour. Prostitution.
‘This last couple of years they’ve specialised more and more in the trafficking of young people. Fourteen to seventeen. Technically, children. Some of them get pushed out on to the streets selling cigarettes, counterfeit DVDs and the like; some work fifteen, sixteen hours a day in dodgy pizza parlours; others are forced into brothels. Brothels, massage parlours, whatever you call them. That’s where the serious money’s made.’
He leaned forward, hitting his stride.
‘One underage girl — or boy — can earn two fifty, three hundred pounds a day. Minimum. Just do the maths. You could be talking six, seven thousand a month, easy. From just one kid. Close on eighty thousand a year. Two, three years till they’re used up, over the hill. Kick them out on to the streets and start again.
‘This last eighteen months I’ve been leading a Project Team looking into the London end of this, liaising with SOCA at a national level. And with SIS, through Alex here. Getting hold of evidence, solid evidence, finding people willing to go on record, stand up in court, it’s not easy. You know, I think, what happened with Horak previously. We thought we had him and then we didn’t. We get so far and then the ground tends to slide out from under us. These last few months, though, have been interesting.’
He paused for water.
‘Up until recently, most of our long-term home-grown dealers have been happy enough to take their supplies from the Albanians, the Bulgarians, whoever. Business being business. But for some of them, it stuck in their craw. And just lately they’ve been kicking back. Taking out some of the lower level guys, frightening them off, clawing their way back up the chain. Intercepting shipments that have been coming in by way of the Channel Tunnel, or, in one or two cases, offloaded off the coast. And then hitting where it hurts. Karen, we’ve talked a little about this. Raids on cannabis farms right across East Anglia and the South-East.’
‘For which,’ Karen said, ‘you think Gordon Dooley is responsible.’
‘Our information suggests Dooley is behind it, yes. The extent to which he plays an active part, we’re still not sure. As you know, he’s currently under surveillance. And, though we’ve no definite proof, nothing quite yet to get us knocking down doors, there’s good reason for supposing a South London gang centring round known villains like Mike Carter and possibly, just possibly, Terry Martin, is providing the muscle.’
‘The same gang,’ Burcher said, intervening, ‘of which Parsons and Johnson, our two bodies from Camden, were charter members.’
‘The same.’
‘So, Camden was an organised hit by Horak or someone close to him — East European, anyway, that’s what we’re thinking — a warning. The response to which was that bloody business out at Stansted.’
‘It points that way,’ Cormack said.
‘Tit for tat.’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything you can do, I can do better.’
For one bizarre moment, Karen thought the Detective Chief Inspector might be about to burst into song.
‘The earlier murder,’ Burcher said, ‘Andronic, the kid in the pond, you see, Karen, any connection?’
She took a moment to consider her answer.
‘I’m not sure, sir. We do have some information that he might have been involved in some occasional low-level dealing, but I can’t see him being visible enough to attract the attention of someone like Martin or Dooley. Although …’ She hesitated.
‘Go on.’
‘Terry Martin’s daughter had been seeing Andronic very much against his wishes.’
‘And for that,’ Alex Williams said, speaking for the first time, ‘he would have killed him?’
‘I think it’s possible, yes.’
‘Possible,’ Burcher said, ‘though I believe, despite the best efforts of you and your team, unproven.’
‘So far. Sir.’
Burcher let it pass.
‘These murders,’ Karen said, ‘Stansted, Camden, I’m assuming from what we’ve heard — the point of this meeting, really — you’ll be wanting my team to step away.’
Burcher cleared his throat. ‘Not necessarily so.’
‘But everything Warren’s just said, the nature of what’s happened, what lays behind it, this has to be a Project Team operation, surely? They’ve got the resources, the background. All we’ll do, muddy the waters. Get in the way to no good cause.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘We’ve plenty enough on our plates as it is.’
No one spoke. A slight scuffing of feet beneath the table. Uneasy glances.
‘As I say, not necessarily the way we see it,’ Burcher said. ‘Not at all. Everyone else here — Warren, Alex, Charles-’
‘Charlie.’
‘Right, Charlie. They’re all intent on the bigger picture, you’re correct about that, of course. Whereas you, your team, specific aims, objectives — homicide investigation, your field of expertise.’
Not what you said last time, you bastard, Karen thought; not what you implied.
‘So, we’d like you to push ahead on the Camden killing, Milescu, too, concentrate your energies there.…’
‘And these last two murders, Stansted …’
‘As and how they’re linked, yes. Liaising with Warren, of course.’
‘That’s a big stretch, without help.…’
‘Any request for extra bodies, extra hours — sympathetically met.’ Burcher lifted the papers in front of him and tapped the ends into place.
‘Alex, anything you want to add?’
‘Not at this stage, thank you.’
‘Charles?’
‘Charlie. Yes, just one thing. For some little time now, we’ve been taking an interest in the activities of a certain Anton Kosach. Businessman from the Ukraine. No links with Horak as far as we’ve been able to establish. Bit more establishment, more upmarket. Oil money to begin with. More recently mineral products, high-end motors, transportation. Owns a number of properties, a place in Surrey worth upwards of fifteen million amongst them. Numbers amongst his friends one or two with possible connections to people trafficking. As far as we’ve made out so far, these connections are purely social, but that’s by no means definite. And Kosach’s various enterprise
s put him in a good position to facilitate money laundering on quite a large scale. Again, nothing definite, nothing proved. But we’re watching. SIS also.’
A glance towards Alex Williams, who nodded agreement.
‘So,’ Frost concluded, ‘should Kosach’s name show up on anyone’s radar, I’d appreciate a heads-up forthwith. Alex, also.’
Burcher thanked him, thanked everyone, brought the meeting to a close. General movement, a scraping of chairs.
‘It’s been a while,’ Alex Williams said, falling into step beside Karen in the corridor outside.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I’ll give you a call. Come over. Bit of a catch-up.’
‘Okay, fine. I’d like that,’ Karen said, without quite believing it would happen. Busy people, busy lives. Alex Williams, busier than most.
At the foot of the stairs they exchanged smiles and went their separate ways, Karen fast-dialling Mike Ramsden as she did so, setting up a meeting of their own, how to proceed from here.
35
Not quite able to settle, alert for sounds of an approaching car, strange voices, a vehicle turning into the lane, they had fallen, nevertheless, into something approaching a routine. Letitia was the more listless, the more likely to lapse into moods of depression, alleviated by her son’s almost omnipresent good humour.
Kiley had made contact with Anton’s brother, Taras, as requested; driven up from London and met him at an Ibis hotel, off the M6 north of Preston. Phoned Cordon to report.
Anton was under a lot of pressure, Taras had told him, seeking to explain his brother’s behaviour. Business, it does not always run well. He chose not to elaborate. And on top of that, this thing with Letitia and his son … much as he liked Letitia, Taras said, she was in the wrong. Taking a man’s son away from him, his flesh and blood.
Taras had gripped Kiley’s arm. ‘In our country, in Ukraine, it is most important bond. Family. Father and son. Holy, you understand? Here, in England, perhaps is different. But for us, for Anton … And what did she think, Letitia? She could run, hide forever? And you, you know where she is. Her and the boy.’
Kiley had shaken his head.
‘You must.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘This man with her …’
‘A man with her?’
‘This man, he is her lover?’
‘No.’
‘You are sure of this?’
Kiley nodded.
‘Then why?’
‘A friend.’
‘A fool.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You know where they are,’ Taras said again.
‘She wants to be certain nothing will happen to her,’ Kiley said. ‘If she returns. Her or the boy. She wants to know that Anton will sit down with her and talk, talk reasonably.’
‘Of course.’
‘A lawyer should be involved.’
‘No lawyers. He does not like lawyers.’
‘An accommodation needs to be reached. Equal access to the child.’
‘Equal, no. He will never agree. Danya is his son.’
‘Equal access and a financial arrangement of some kind, to look after the boy. The exact details can be sorted later.’
Over and over, Taras was shaking his head.
‘I was told you were a reasonable man,’ Kiley said. ‘A good man. Someone who could be trusted to do the right thing.’
Taras flexed the fingers of both hands, the knuckles cracking, one after another. ‘I will speak with him. My brother. Do what I can. I will let you know.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But no promise.’
‘I understand.’
‘What d’you think?’ Cordon had asked Kiley, once the conversation had been relayed.
‘My best guess?’
‘Of course.’
‘My guess would be, sooner or later Anton will come round. Pretend to, at least. Agree to terms, and then, when he’s got them in his sights, renege on the whole thing. Till then, I’d keep a weather eye.’
‘You’re a pal, Jack.’
‘Just wait till you get my bill.’
Cordon took it as a joke; hoped against hope that it was. All too aware that Kiley had already gone the extra mile and beyond. Loyalties stretched close to breaking point, he shouldn’t wonder.
‘As soon as Taras gets back to me,’ Kiley said, ‘I’ll let you know.’
They were still waiting.
In the kitchen, next to Letitia, Cordon was Heston Blumenthal and Nigel Slater rolled into one. ‘Cordon Bleu again, eh?’ Letitia had joked, on her way from bathroom to bedroom through the kitchen. The towel she was holding wrapped around her slipped just a little as she turned away.
Cordon used a fork to turn the sausages in the pan, where they were cooking with onions, a couple of bay leaves and a scattering of fennel. The potatoes were simmering, ready to be mashed with milk and butter. He poured a splash of red wine in with the sausages, another into the gravy that was thickening in a small saucepan to one side.
‘You’d make someone a lovely husband,’ Letitia said, coming back into the room. ‘Anyone ever tell you that?’
‘Not recently.’
She picked up his glass and sampled the wine. Made an approving face and poured some generously into a glass of her own.
‘You could tell Danny dinner’s nearly ready,’ Cordon said. ‘Drag him away from the TV.’
Some forty-five minutes later, plates that had been full were close to empty; even Danny had made short work of two fat sausages and a good dollop of mash soaked in gravy. Only the onions had been pushed to the side of his plate and left.
‘Now tell me there’s apple pie,’ Letitia said.
‘Afraid not.’
‘Anything?’
‘Pears. Cheese.’
‘What kind of cheese?’
‘Goat’s.’
She put two fingers in her mouth and mimed throwing up and, laughing at this, Danny had a coughing fit that reduced him to tears.
Cordon did the washing-up and Letitia, having run a bath for Danny, dried.
Cordon opened a second bottle of wine.
Letitia washed her son’s hair, rinsed it, and rubbed it dry. Kissed him and tucked him up in bed. Read him story after story until his eyelids fluttered closed. Kissed him again, gently, sat watching him a while longer, then tiptoed away, angling the door quietly closed.
She was not going to lose him, no matter what.
There was a sliver of moon in the sky; faint clusters of stars. Close against the open doorway, Letitia shivered and lit a cigarette. Cordon was standing midway between the house and the barn, staring up into the sky. His father had taught him the names of all the constellations and now, though he could trace their patterns with his eyes, Orion aside, he could not have named a single one.
It didn’t matter, he told himself, why should it? But in some way he couldn’t quite explain, not knowing was letting his father down; dishonoured him; what he stood for, what he was.
‘Don’t you have a son somewhere?’ Letitia had said to him the other day. ‘South Africa, somewhere? Australia?’
He hadn’t answered.
Her cigarette sparked now in the darkness.
‘Danny sleeping?’ he asked, turning in her direction.
‘I think so.’
She thought he was going to stop beside her as he drew level, but instead he carried on into the house.
36
Ramsden had been right about the car used in the Camden shootings, the BMW; it had been found on the upper level of a supermarket car park out at St Albans, burned to a blackened shell. The lab techs had done what they could — cyanoacrylate fuming, VMD — but to no avail. If there was a link back to Valentyn Horak, always assuming Horak and his associates had been responsible, this wasn’t it.
So far, they had had no success in discovering whatever vehicle had ferried the bodies to Stansted, nor where Horak and the others had been tortured prior to b
eing killed. Gordon Dooley, suspected of being behind the crimes, avenging the gunning down of two of his own, was still under careful surveillance and was placing not a foot out of line. The only regular visits he made were to his ageing mother in a care home in Haywards Heath and to the chiropractor dealing with his back, spatial realignment of the spine. The only phone calls to one of his ex-wives, urging a reconsideration of the amount he was currently paying in child support, and to his bookmaker ahead of meetings at Kempton, Haydock and Southwell.
The CCTV operator who’d conveniently phoned in sick on the evening the three bodies were placed inside the airport storage unit, was still adamant that his migraine had been real, no one had got to him, no pressures exerted, no payment made. His bank account showed no unexplained sums as income; a search of the flat where he lived in Harlow had discovered no suitcases crammed with used banknotes on top of the wardrobe or under the bed. Taking up the floorboards yielded only dry rot and a small family of mice.
‘Bastard’s lying through his back teeth,’ Ramsden said and Karen thought he was right. But proving it, like so much else …
The security officer supposedly on patrol that evening had proved an easier nut to crack. Up to a certain point. Sick about it, wasn’t he? Sick to his stomach about what had happened. Never would have imagined it, never in a million years. These two fellers had approached him, he told Ramsden, just a couple of nights before. All we need you to do, they said, turn a blind eye. To what? He didn’t know to what, didn’t ask. Bit of jiggery pokery with one of the containers, he imagined. Something smuggled in. Stuff being knocked off, stripped from the manifest. If he’d thought for a moment it was going to be anything like it was …
