Carnal Acts

by Sam Alexander

  She nodded. ‘So why did you come out, if it isn’t too personal?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the story?’

  ‘No one gossips with me, Pete. The DCI gives me the odd bit of background.’

  Not that Heck Rutherford was much of a gossip merchant, Rokeby thought. ‘It was in the old Newcastle HQ about a year and a half ago,’ he said, meeting Joni Pax’s eyes. He felt completely at ease with her. ‘Some of the guys got suspicious when I kept avoiding the weekly trip to a pub with strippers. The nasty remarks started. So one morning, at the end of the briefing, I stuck up my hand and DCI Rutherford gave me the nod. I said, “I’m gay. Anyone got a problem with that?” Strangely enough, no one did. I got slaps on the back for having the balls to come out with it.’

  Joni wiped her mouth. ‘But that wasn’t the end of it?’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s never an end to it, you know that. They call me Pancake because I like my food, but there are still comments. Jokes, like, but with razor blades in them.’

  ‘Sounds familiar. You have to be stronger than everyone else all the time. It gets exhausting.’

  ‘It does.’

  Joni patted his arm. ‘This is on me. We’d better get a move on. Nick the Human Traffic Light will soon be home from school.’

  Pete Rokeby watched her while she paid. Until then he had thought DI Pax was a typical hard-bitten female cop – a taller, darker version of Ruth Dickie. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  39

  ‘Is Gaz there?’

  ‘No. The fucker isn’t answering his phone. I’ve got three cars in for service and two MOTs. I’ve had it up to here with him.’

  ‘Don’t be too hard on him. He’s been missing for nearly four days.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you? His social worker?’

  ‘His best mate, Kyle Laggan.’

  ‘I suppose they call you Kylie.’

  ‘Only my mates. Or scumbags who can run fast.’

  ‘Hard man, eh? When you find Gaz, tell him I’m docking his wages and he’ll have to make up the time.’

  ‘I’m going to call the cops, report him missing.’

  ‘Good for you. Won’t do any fucking good.’

  ‘I know. Still, I got to do something.’

  ‘Here, now I come to think of it, one of the other lads said they saw him on Friday night. Oy, Johnnie, get over here. Talk to this lad. He’s called Kylie.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not you. Your boss is a pillock.’

  ‘I noticed. What do you want?’

  ‘He said you saw Gaz on Friday night.’

  ‘Aye, I did. He was with this guy round the back of the Stars and Bars.’

  ‘About two o’clock?’

  ‘Probably. I was pissed and I was smoking something reet skunky.’

  ‘So what was going on?’

  ‘They were having a chat, nothing nasty that I could see. They got into a black Bentley Continental GT Speed and drove off. It had tinted windows so I couldn’t see inside. Fucking brilliant motor, that.’

  ‘What the fuck?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Gaz in a Bentley? He’s got a knackered old Micra.’

  ‘Maybe he’s got friends in high places.’

  ‘I’ve known him since primary school. The highest place we’ve been is the Get Carter Car Park.’

  ‘Shame they knocked that down. It was an ugly piece of shit though.’

  ‘So, the guy Gaz was with. What did he look like?’

  ‘Bouncer-type. Black suit, big, shaved head. Oh, and his nose was all flat.’

  ‘Did you see anything else at the club?’

  ‘Nay, you know what them places are like. Headbangers speaking funny languages on the door, local headbangers trying to get into the knickers of lasses inside.’

  ‘What funny languages?’

  ‘I heard that lot are from Albania. Hey, the pillock’s giving me the death stare. Got to go.’

  ‘Albania? Fuck.’

  40

  ‘Come off it, Heck, the ACC’s having a hot flush.’ DCI Lee Young was number two in the Newcastle MCU. He was in his early forties, had a chip on his shoulder about officers who’d been to university and didn’t like the way the new force had been constituted. ‘Stabbings at a knocking shop in Corham, then an Albanian caught near Alnwick with a gun and a kilo of coke and she thinks the wankers are taking over the region? That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Maybe and maybe not. I don’t see the weeklies you send her. Are the Albanians getting ahead over there these days?’ Heck and Young had an up-and-down history. They’d worked together to nail a couple of violent gangs a decade back, but Heck had sent down one of his former colleague’s best friends when he was in the anti-corruption unit. As a result, he had to squeeze hard for cooperation.

  ‘Are they getting ahead? Not really. The local mobs still rule the roost, but it would be fair to say the Albies are making inroads.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Medium time, I’d say. The Turks still control things up the east coast. The Albies have a go from time to time.’

  ‘I saw there were three dead down by the river a few weeks back.’

  ‘None of them Albanian. We caught one of the knifemen, who might well be, but he never talked. That dickhead Lennox was all over us the minute we turned the heat up.’

  Heck looked out his office window and watched a pair of scowling teenagers being walked to the main entrance by uniformed officers. ‘If they can afford Lennox, they must be making serious money.’

  ‘Not necessarily up here. They could be being subbed by their big bosses in London.’

  Heck paused for a moment, then pressed the phone against his ear. ‘The Popi mean anything to you?’

  Young was silent for more than a moment. ‘The Popi,’ he repeated, stretching out the syllables. ‘Might do. What have you got for me?’

  ‘The tip of ACC Crime Dickie’s shoe – and she’s taken to wearing winkle-pickers.’

  ‘Ha fucking ha.’

  The thought of Mrs Normal in anything other than sober flatties almost made Heck laugh too, but he restrained himself.

  ‘Oh, all right,’ Young said. ‘But I want to see the file on the dead man and his crew.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ That was no concession on Heck’s part – the files would soon be available to the Newcastle MCU on the Force database, but Lee Young had to keep face.

  ‘The Popi have turned up the odd time in the last couple of months. The guy we caught on the riverbank mentioned them when he was talking to Lennox. The interpreter picked it up. Did you know Lennox can speak Italian? Apparently the Albanians understand it. And we ran a phone tap before we raided a knocking shop off the Gallowgate – the name was mentioned. We’re guessing it’s a family or clan, but we don’t know if it’s up here or down south.’

  ‘None of the names we sent over rang any bells?’

  ‘Only Leka. It cropped up half-a-dozen times on that phone tap. Then again, Leka might be their equivalent of John.’

  ‘Aye, and Popi might be the Albanian Smith. OK, Lee, thanks. I’ll be in touch.’ Heck glared at the uniformed sergeant who was standing at his door. ‘What is it, Len? I’m up to my ears.’

  ‘It’s a woman, sir,’ the wizened officer said. ‘She insists on seeing you. Says she knows you. A Mrs Alice Liphook?’

  ‘Oh, Christ. What does she want?’

  ‘Says she’s been burgled.’

  ‘Well, get one of your lads to take a statement.’

  ‘Tried that. She started ranting and raving, even threatened to tear down some of the notices…’

  ‘Sounds like you should have arrested her. All right, I’ll talk to her. Bring her up, but don’t leave me on my own with her.’

  The sergeant stared at him. ‘She doesn’t look like she’d—’

  ‘Don’t even think that!’ Heck suddenly looked bilious. �
�She’s one of the governors of Ag’s school.’

  ‘I did wonder, sir.’

  ‘When I say the word “crow” in any form, usher her out at speed. I’ll be about to tear her head off.’

  A few minutes later Alice Liphook was sitting on the sofa that ran along one side of Heck’s office. Sergeant Moody stood in the doorway like a sentry. There were several female officers visible through the glass windows, so procedure was more or less being maintained.

  ‘Does your colleague have to be present, Hector?’ Mrs Liphook asked, in her high-pitched voice.

  ‘Standard practice, Alice,’ Heck replied. ‘We do everything in twos here.’

  The woman peered at him through large round glasses. ‘No wonder crime’s going through the roof.’ She lifted one thick thigh over the other, giving a flash of support stockings beneath her long tweed skirt. ‘As in the case of my shed.’

  ‘Your shed?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice Liphook said, her small head tilting back and forth as if it was coming undone. It looked incongruous on top of her well-upholstered body. ‘Someone broke into it and stole a valuable velvet dressing gown and my favourite hat, as well as a lot of food.’

  ‘A velvet dressing gown…’ Heck busied himself taking notes. Mrs Liphook – her husband had sensibly died over a decade ago – was Corham’s number one busybody.

  ‘A lot of food was consumed on the spot as well. And the place smelled like a sweatshop.’

  ‘You live in Corham Gardens, don’t you?’ Heck remembered dropping Ag off once in the expensive suburb. ‘And this was your garden shed?’

  ‘My study shed. I need to get out of the house to read and write. I stay there all day.’

  ‘I see. And had the house itself been broken into?’

  ‘No, they hadn’t even tried as far as I can see. I was at my daughter’s up in Rothbury. I stayed the night and drove back this morning.’

  ‘And you saw no sign of the culprit or culprits when you arrived?’

  ‘No, luckily they’d gone. I’d have given them what for in no uncertain terms.’

  Heck frowned at Len Moody, whose lips were twisting as he tried to swallow laughter.

  ‘Did anything else catch your attention, Alice?’ It was hard to be sure about her age because of the heavy layers on face, eyes and lips. Seventy-five was as low as he’d be prepared to go.

  ‘Yes. These were no ordinary thieves. They didn’t take my laptop or radio.’

  ‘Why do you say “thieves” plural?’

  Mrs Liphook stared at him. ‘Because of the amount of food that was consumed, my dear man. Three tins of soup, two of beans, and two of sardines, as well as three packets of biscuits. And that’s just what was eaten there. They took a lot more away with them.’

  Heck glanced out of the window and prepared to make an ornithological observation.

  ‘Oh, one last thing, Hector. There were rags in the bin, rags with blood on them. The smell … just awful.’

  Heck thought about the woman Joni had chased outside the brothel. She had bare feet and was in need of clothes; food and shelter too. Had she found some cast-offs and made it as far as Corham Gardens?

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Alice. I’ll send some people down. They’ll check for fingerprints. Please don’t go back into the shed until further notice.’

  The woman looked as if she’d been evicted. ‘Oh, but … but my work.’

  ‘I’m sure you can manage in the big house for a day or two,’ Heck said, standing up. ‘Now, Sergeant, I have an appointment with Inspector Crow. Please have someone take Mrs Liphook’s statement and fingerprints so we can distinguish them from those of the intruders.’

  ‘Thank you, dear Hector,’ the woman said, gathering together her possessions. ‘Do give my best to Agnes.’ She was one of those people who refused to use diminutives.

  Dear Hector. That would be around Force HQ before the hour was out, Heck was certain.

  41

  Evie made her own lunch. She preferred it that way. Her parents were rarely in and, although Cheryl would have done something for her, Evie preferred not to ask. She took her fruit and yoghurt to the dining room. When Favon Hall opened to the public in the summer months, it was one of the high points. For that reason her father had spent what he described as ‘a ridiculous amount of money’ restoring it to its original condition. The mahogany table was long and wide, and covered with antique silverware, china and cutlery. A red sash separated the paying customers from the valuables and a security guard was hired to make sure nothing was taken. The walls were covered in paintings, including a Gainsborough, two Constables and a Stubbs. They used to be kept in a bank vault, but Victoria had convinced Andrew to bring them out to attract visitors. The security system that the insurers required cost ‘an even more ridiculous amount’.

  Apart from the library, the dining room was Evie’s favourite. The family rarely used it – only when they wanted to impress people and persuade them to put money into her father’s numerous business initiatives. Although the sugar mill, distillery, tannery and machine works had gone, Andrew had his fingers in pies all over Northumberland and County Durham. Evie knew that her mother kept a close eye on the companies and was a director of several.

  But it was all rooted in blood money. Evie wondered how the story of Jaffray had affected Nick. She still wasn’t sure why she’d shown him it. After they’d made love beneath the table, she should have changed her mind, but her mind and body had moved on to a different, unguessed-at level and she had lost control of herself. Maybe she’d scared him off. Imagine losing your virginity and then forcing your lover to read about the disgusting behaviour of your ancestors. But there was something unusual about Nick. On the surface he was the school hero, but deeper down he was vulnerable. She had the impression he hadn’t found himself yet. Maybe she could help, though not by recounting the fruits of her latest research. She had run it past her parents and they had reacted violently, telling her not to waste her time with the past – hardly the most helpful observation to a future student of history. Andrew had obviously heard at least part of the story, probably from his notoriously unpleasant and fortunately long dead father. It was clear that Victoria hadn’t. Although she was initially shocked, a look came into her eyes that Evie didn’t like at all.

  What she’d found was the description of a slave ship’s voyage across the Atlantic in 1766. The Esmerelda wasn’t just any slave ship, though. It was the first that the Favons had a share in. Twenty years later, the family owned three ships outright, as well as retaining an exclusive agent in the Bight of Benin. One of her forebears even crossed from Africa to Jamaica. Erasmus was his name. He kept a diary. The writing had faded, but she’d managed to make it out.

  The blacks were secured in fetters below deck. All were naked, sea water hosed over them to get rid of their filth every day. They were fed gruel by the females, who were ravaged by the crew before they were chained up again. The poor women were abused even when they were immobile. Her ancestor took pleasure in servicing one particular slave from behind because he didn’t like her ‘impudent but reginal face’. In the middle of the crossing, the wind dropped and the Esmeralda drifted for days. Fresh water had to be rationed and the slaves, more valuable than the crew, were given enough to keep them alive. They groaned under the resentful sailors’ whips, groaned as their lips cracked and sores from the rough decks erupted on their backs and buttocks, groaned collectively like a huge expiring beast. Twenty-seven of them died, including nine females, and their corpses were tossed overboard. The woman with the queenly face, whom Erasmus, with characteristic lack of wit, had named Negra, was one of them.

  By the time the Esmeralda reached Port Royal, the survivors were in an appalling state. Erasmus reported that his father was most displeased, ordering the slaves to be taken to the nearest of his estates to be fattened up. They were assets, he told his sons, vital cogs in the engine of the family’s wealth. It was a shame they were not machine parts, easily a
nd cheaply replaceable, and not susceptible to disease, sloth and rebellion. Machines like the cane crushers and the sugar boilers did not need feeding or housing other than simple sheds. The old man had laughed, saying that, on the other hand, there was no joy in coupling with an engine, or in beating it. Erasmus noted that the pater was in uncommonly good spirits, despite the partial loss of his cargo – he had been appointed deputy governor of the island and commander of the plantation owners’ militia. A title was in the offing.

  But Evie had not left the story there. She carried out more research and discovered it was Erasmus who, on inheriting the title from his father, had built the Hall beside the medieval tower. By the time he died, a pox-ridden, dropsical balloon, he had gambled away much of his fortune. It was the beginning of the family’s decline, though the profits from the Caribbean were still enough to surpass many of the older aristocracy’s holdings. When Erasmus died at fifty-three, he weighed twenty-three stone and had to be fed like a child. His wife, twenty years younger and the personification of avarice, leaned towards his blubbery lips to catch his last words. They were, ‘Negra … forgive me’. She had no idea who he was talking about. It was fifteen years since he’d made a trip to Jamaica and there were no slaves in Northumberland. No black ones, at least.

  42

  ‘That’s it,’ DS Rokeby said, pointing at a detached house on the village’s main street. A dark green Jaguar and a yellow Saab were parked in the gravel-covered drive. ‘So, how do you want to handle this?’

  ‘What? Oh. How about I ask questions and you take notes?’

  Pete Rokeby wondered where her thoughts had been for the last quarter of an hour. She’d been on autopilot, reacting to his directions and driving safely enough, but silent and absorbed.

  They got out and approached the entrance. The house was large, but by no means the most striking in the village. Rosie Etherington opened the door, her face pale. She took Joni’s hand and then Rokeby’s, smiling nervously.