by Stav Sherez
‘Where the fuck are they taking him?’ Carrigan said, moving closer to Holden, breathing the words into his face.
Holden took a step back. ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ he replied. ‘Father McCarthy has to prepare himself for a long flight tomorrow. He needs his rest.’
‘A flight?’
‘He’s being transferred to a small parish in the South Pacific. Somewhere that needs a man like him. I’m sure he’ll find it a very interesting posting, a lot of challenges . . .’
‘You set me up, didn’t you?’ Carrigan said. ‘You left the room knowing we would . . . you even kept glancing in the direction of the filing cabinets every time I mentioned Father McCarthy . . .’ And then he stopped and leaned forward. ‘How long?’
‘How long what?’
‘How long have you known? From the very beginning? Or did you stumble on what the nuns were up to in Peru by accident? That’s the real reason you were having them excommunicated, isn’t it? Not over some book that no one would ever read.’
Holden resisted the temptation to take a further step back. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Carrigan grabbed Holden’s lapel and held him firm, cinching the material in his fists. ‘You suddenly have a very good reason for getting rid of the nuns.’
Holden pulled himself out of Carrigan’s grip, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and shaking his head. He looked at his watch and smiled. ‘You have only a few hours left to enjoy your last day as a policeman – I suggest you don’t waste them here.’
45
He’d never seen the ACC like this. Normally undemonstrative and calm, Quinn was pacing back and forth behind Branch’s desk, the super nowhere to be seen, the grinding of Quinn’s teeth the only sound in the room. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Quinn was pulling out Branch’s chair, leaning on it, putting it back, his hands seemingly not under his control.
‘Sir?’ Carrigan kept his face impassive, a sinking in his stomach, the way you know something before you know it.
‘I will not tolerate your continued disrespect to the church and the position it’s put me in. I spoke to Roger Holden just now and he’s furious, on the point of pressing charges against you. You’re bloody lucky you’re not suspended. What did you think you were doing, Carrigan?’ Quinn’s eyes shot up, cold and piercing. ‘No, don’t answer – there’s nothing you can say to make this better. You entered Burnham monastery yesterday under false pretences and harassed a patient. I really thought someone with your background would be more discreet.’
‘My background?’ Carrigan repeated, lost words and conversations rattling through his head, that horrible sensation of things clicking into place. ‘You put me on this case because I’m a Catholic?’
‘Enough! Just listen to yourself, Carrigan. It’s how it looks that matters. Now, tell me, is the case wrapped up? Or have you been wasting time again?’
Carrigan took a deep breath and ran through what Father McCarthy had told them. Quinn’s face was rigid and unblinking. ‘Whores?’ Quinn said, shaking his head.
‘Nigel’s murder makes sense now. His death – the torture, mutilation and prolongation of suffering – is consistent with a revenge killing by the Albanians. Duka was getting payback. The way he saw it, Nigel and Emily had stolen from him. Duka’s men made three visits to the convent, demanding that the nuns hand over Emily, and when the nuns refused, Duka sent someone to torch the place.’
Quinn sighed. ‘You have this gift of making something very complicated sound so simple, Carrigan. I wish it were so. If this really was Duka, you’ll never tie him to it. You know that as well as I do.’
Carrigan was silent, the same thought circling his brain for the last few hours. ‘Maybe we can’t tie him to the fire but that doesn’t mean we should just forget him. He’s running a brothel on our patch, drugs, guns, God knows what else. Money is all he cares about and that’s where I want to hurt him. Raid his premises every other day. Station surveillance vans in plain sight outside his brothels. Make him give us the firestarter.’
Quinn shook his head and planted his hands deep in his pockets. ‘No. The last thing the Met needs right now is another harassment suit. You already have your culprit in the morgue.’
Carrigan wasn’t sure he understood quite what Quinn was suggesting. ‘Nigel?’
‘The man was scum. I want to go live with this tomorrow lunchtime. You know what to say. Emily had broken up with Nigel and he wasn’t too happy about it. He followed her to the convent, killed her and set the fire to hide the evidence.’
‘Nigel didn’t do it,’ Carrigan said. ‘The man was trash but he’s just as much a victim of Duka as the nuns. I’m not going to let Duka get away with this.’ He said it with as much conviction as he could muster but he could tell by the ACC’s eyes that it wasn’t enough.
‘I thought you’d say that, Carrigan. Which is why I called you in here to inform you that as of tomorrow I’m transferring the case to DI Malone.’
Carrigan had been expecting this, but not so soon. He stopped, took a deep breath, thought about what he was about to do and said, ‘Perhaps it would be wise to think about that before you . . .’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Quinn snapped.
‘Absolutely not.’ Carrigan eased forward on the chair, taking his time. ‘It’s just that if DI Malone takes over, I’ll have to hand him all my files, including the one detailing donors to the convent.’
Quinn stopped mid-stride and turned and stared at Carrigan. His hands gripped the back of the chair, the fingers turning white, his lips almost disappearing. ‘Donating money to a charity isn’t a crime.’
Carrigan allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile. ‘No, you’re correct – but it’s how it looks that matters, right?’
Quinn was breathing deeply, his fingers digging into the chair fabric, the rest of his body absolutely motionless.
‘You knew what they were doing, didn’t you?’ Carrigan stared into the ACC’s eyes and saw no flicker of denial or surprise. ‘You knew and you still gave them money.’
Quinn pulled out the seat and sat down heavily. He closed his eyes for a moment, eventually opening them to reveal small shrunk stones bereft of light. ‘Okay, Carrigan. What do you want? You want to be back on the case?’
‘I want a lot more than that.’
Quinn looked up and eyeballed him for a full minute before speaking. ‘Don’t for a minute think I’ll forget this, Carrigan.’
*
Geneva called out to Carrigan as he was leaving the building. She was sitting on a ledge outside the main gate, a cigarette clamped between her lips. She pulled out her earphones and crushed the butt under her shoe.
‘Problems with Quinn?’
Carrigan walked over and stood beside her. She looked tired and frayed, her eyes sunk deep into their sockets. ‘Nah, he just wanted to tell me what a great job we’re doing.’
It brought out a smile. He sat down on the ledge beside her, letting the adrenalin of the meeting course through his veins. ‘You done for the day?’
She nodded. ‘Was going to go home and watch a DVD.’ She hesitated, her mouth slightly ajar. ‘Don’t suppose you fancy joining me?’ She looked down at her shoes and the still smoking butt beside them.
‘I’d love to,’ Carrigan replied, ‘but I have to go meet Donna.’ He noticed a flicker of something on Geneva’s face, quickly subsumed. ‘I owe her Emily’s story. She’d finally turned her life around and the family needs to know that.’
Geneva didn’t say anything for a few moments, her eyes searching his. ‘Are you sure it’s because of the case you’re going?’
‘Of course,’ he replied, but as soon as he said it he knew he was partly lying and that it wasn’t the only reason. He watched as Geneva walked away and disappeared under the grey overhang of the motorway, only a couple of crushed cigarette butts to remind him she’d even been here at all.
46
Donna was
sitting at a corner table staring blankly at the snow, a cup of coffee going cold in her hands. When she saw Carrigan enter the cafe, her eyes softened and she brushed back a twist of stray hair as she got up. She was wearing a blue-and-white jumper and a brown skirt that curved and clung to her figure. They stood there for a long moment not saying anything, their eyes locked together, and then Carrigan coughed and broke her stare. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’
Her smile was deep and warm. ‘I was so glad when I got your call,’ she said, and stepped aside to let him sit down. Their bodies brushed lightly against each other as he shuffled past her.
They sat and sipped their coffees and watched the people stop and drink and make jokes with the baristas and wish them happy Christmas. He told her about Emily and what she’d been up to. ‘She was trying to do good in her own way and she was killed because of it.’
Donna wiped her eyes and smiled and took a sip of her coffee. Carrigan rested his palm on her elbow. ‘I’m sorry.’
Donna shuddered, a slight tremor that Carrigan could feel leaking through her arm. ‘Thank you for telling me about Emily. I know it’s a small thing but you don’t know how much it means to me.’ Her mouth was close to his, her breath sweet with coffee.
‘She was a brave girl,’ Carrigan said and, before he could react, Donna leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, her lips soft and warm and wet against his skin. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, leaning back, her face blushing. ‘You know, that day by the pond, that was my only good day since . . .’
‘I know.’ Carrigan smiled softly, got up and walked away.
He waited for the bus but was too impatient to stand around so he started walking, trying to burn off the excess energy in the gathering storm. He could barely see a few feet in front of him but he didn’t mind, enjoying the sting and melt of the snow against his face and thinking about Donna’s last words, the residual heat of her kiss on his cheek. He didn’t notice the SUV stopping fifty feet ahead of him nor see the man get out.
He looked down at the man’s hands and all thoughts of Donna’s long hair and shy smile were instantly erased. The gun was pointing at his stomach and Viktor’s eyes were hard and sharp. ‘Get in.’
Carrigan stood frozen.
‘I said get the fuck in.’ Viktor used the gun to gesture to the passenger seat. Carrigan saw that it had been pushed back to its limit. He felt the barrel press up against his flesh and he leaned in and was about to sit down when Viktor shouted, ‘On the floor!’
He crouched down on his knees in the scant space of the SUV’s footwell, knowing that this was the crucial moment. Once they were both in the car his chances of escape were virtually zero. His only opportunity would be when Viktor made his way across to the driver’s side.
Carrigan steadied himself and rehearsed how he would do it. Wait until the Albanian sat down, when his body and aim were out of line. He started a deep breathing cycle to calm his heart and still his hands.
Viktor looked down into the car, smiled as if he’d just read Carrigan’s mind and smashed the butt of the gun against his head.
47
The feel of the gritted road beneath him. The swelling pressure in his head. The smell of crushed cigarettes and cracked leather.
Carrigan opened his eyes and looked around. He was crouched in the footwell, squeezed into a space too small for a man half his size. His wrists had been secured with a plastic snap-tie, his fingers already numb and swollen.
‘Viktor.’
The man didn’t flinch or react to his own name. The effort to speak caused a new wave of nausea to rise through Carrigan’s throat and he fought hard against the weight of his own body as it tried to sink back into blackness. The dark smeared sky stretched above him. He could see individual snowflakes smash against the passenger window and dissolve like tears.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
Viktor turned towards him for a split second and hissed, ‘Shut up!’
Carrigan tried to ignore the pain creeping up his legs. His knees were almost touching his chin and the enforced position was starting to pull at muscles he never knew existed, torquing his spine and chest, making each breath something to be gasped and fought for. He could taste his own blood in his mouth. He thought of what had been done to Nigel and wondered if they had a special place for that sort of work and if that was where Viktor was taking him.
The sudden pull of gravity told him they were ascending a motorway ramp. A bitter taste filled his mouth as he realised they must be heading out of London, the ramp most probably the M40 scrolling out to the darkened west. He tried to identify the buildings as their roofs passed in a blur through the passenger window, but they were only flashes in the night, dim and unrecognisable.
The road levelled and their speed picked up. Carrigan felt the sour taste of vomit in his throat and swallowed it back down. His heart was hammering away, a deep rumble through his chest. He remembered the feel of Donna’s kiss on his cheek, the sadness weighing down her eyes, the way he’d walked into Viktor’s trap.
‘The police will be following you,’ he said but he knew they wouldn’t even realise he was missing until morning.
‘Shut up,’ the man repeated.
The fact that Viktor was unconcerned about showing his face made Carrigan uneasy – he remembered DI Byrd’s warnings about what Duka and the Albanians were capable of and that snowy morning in the pub, the smell of beer and damp wood and old men, seemed like a lifetime away.
The car began to decelerate, a deepening hum as Viktor spun the wheel, and they were suddenly bumping along an unpaved track, the darkness swallowing everything.
Viktor stopped the car, looked down at Carrigan and gestured with the gun.
‘Get out slowly,’ the Albanian said. ‘Don’t do anything stupid,’ he added. ‘Don’t make me have to shoot you.’
Carrigan wondered if this was the moment, if this was to be his last and only chance. He uncurled slowly and stepped out of the car. He lost his footing on the soft ground, expecting concrete not earth, and righted himself just in time, about to make his move, when he felt the cold kiss of the gun against his head and he didn’t know how Viktor had got out of the car and across so quickly.
‘Over there.’ Viktor pointed towards a dark form at the edge of their vision. Carrigan began walking towards it, the man at his back, the snow falling softly on his face.
They were in an allotment in the middle of a large field. Carrigan could see the dividing fences and square lots to either side. He saw the shed they were heading towards, a rickety wooden structure pitched at the end of the allotment. He felt the snow melt through his shoes and soak his feet, the chill wind cutting through his clothes. He walked slowly, grudgingly, knowing he’d been wrong, and that the chance had come and gone and now there was only him, the man, the gun‚ and the dark interior of the shed.
‘Stop here.’ Viktor took a step forward, reached into his pocket and pulled out a long serrated knife. He thrust the blade at Carrigan and cut. The blood flowed back into Carrigan’s fingers in white-hot needles as the broken snap-tie fell to the ground.
‘Open it and step inside slowly,’ the man commanded and Carrigan did what he said.
The shed smelled of wet soil and mould, a deep fungal stench. Viktor closed the door behind him and suddenly the world was muted and all Carrigan could hear was his own heart.
‘Sit on the floor. Cross your legs underneath you and sit on your hands.’
Carrigan winced as he followed the Albanian’s orders. In this position it would be almost impossible for him to make any quick movements or try to escape. Viktor knew exactly what he was doing. All around them tools were hanging on the walls, rusty scythes and pruning shears, spades and rakes and hammers, root vegetables black with mould stacked up high in one corner.
‘What do you want from me?’
Viktor pulled a folding chair from where it was propped up against the wall and sat down opposite him. ‘I want y
ou to listen,’ he said, his voice slow and measured.
Carrigan dropped his head, his eyes searching the floor for anything he could use, a loose nail, a piece of garden equipment, a sliver of broken glass, but there was only the bare earth.
‘You need to stop this thing you’re doing,’ the Albanian said. ‘You need to stop right now.’
‘Stop what?’ Carrigan stalled.
‘This investigation of yours. The raid on our premises. We had nothing to do with the fire, understand? You’re getting in the way of business and no one is happy about this. Now you plan to do more raids, more trouble, this is something I think you need to reconsider.’
Carrigan wondered how Viktor knew about the forthcoming raids, planned only that morning. ‘I have a job to do and I’m going to do it until it’s done.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ Viktor sounded exasperated as the wind shook the timbers of the shed, moaning and whistling through the cracks. ‘But maybe you care for your partner more? The blonde woman? She can be halfway across Europe by tomorrow morning if I give the order. The men back home in the villages, they will greatly appreciate her, I think.’
Carrigan said nothing, his tongue frozen, his eyes hooded. He looked up at Viktor. ‘You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with the fire and yet you threaten me? We know what happened. We know what you did and why you did it.’
‘You know nothing,’ the man sneered.
‘We know that the nuns were sheltering escaped women. Women your organisation was selling and raping. We know you made several visits to the convent, we even have you on tape. Emily Maxted and the nuns were helping girls escape from your clutches and you couldn’t bear that, could you? Women getting the better of you, ruining your business? So, you sent one of your men to the convent and solved your little problem.’
