Carnal Acts

by Sam Alexander

  ‘I’m sorry, Nick and his grandfather have been delayed. They’ll be back shortly, something about a cricket net over-running?’ She seemed to have little idea of what that meant.

  ‘We can wait in the Land Rover,’ Joni said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Come into the kitchen.’

  Joni let her start inside, then whispered to Rokeby to stay by the Land Rover until the other males arrived.

  ‘Oh, has your colleague …’

  ‘He has some calls to make,’ Joni said. ‘I like this room.’

  Mrs Etherington glanced around. ‘Just the usual country kitchen. Aga, oak table, old-fashioned storage jars on top of the cupboards and…’ Again, her words trailed away.

  Heck had told Joni about Rosie losing her husband – she was a friend of a friend of Ag’s. After that, the death of the major general’s wife had brought them even closer together and there had been gossip when he moved in here. Even a few minutes with the woman convinced Joni that she was nowhere near getting over her husband.

  ‘How’s Nick been?’ she asked.

  ‘Tea? I usually just do a big pot of Darjeeling.’

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Etherington.’ Joni wasn’t going to let her off the hook, but she could be diplomatic when necessary. ‘Look, I’m very sorry about what happened on Sunday night. I wouldn’t have handcuffed your son if I hadn’t been on my own. It looked like a serious incident and unfortunately that initial judgement was correct.’

  ‘Yes, I heard a man died.’ Rosie was fiddling with the alignment of cups and saucers. ‘But Nick couldn’t have seen anything. He was wearing that silly traffic light.’

  ‘Let’s hear what—’ Joni broke off as male voices came from the front of the house.

  Nick Etherington walked in, looking surprisingly relaxed, with his grandfather behind. Pete Rokeby was further to the rear.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ Michael said, extending a hand. ‘Your colleague introduced himself. Sorry we’re late.’ He pulled a chair back and nodded to his grandson.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ Rosie said.

  ‘Mum,’ Nick said, with a smile.

  ‘Sit down, everyone,’ Rosie said. ‘There’s some cake…’

  Joni sat opposite Nick, while Michael went to help Rosie. DS Rokeby took the chair at the far end of the table. After a few minutes there were plates and cups in front of everyone.

  ‘This won’t take long,’ Joni said, ignoring her tea. ‘Nick, I need to clarify some of the things you said on Sunday night.’

  ‘Clarify?’ the young man said, looking down.

  ‘Nick,’ his grandfather said firmly. ‘Do the lady the courtesy of looking at her when you answer.’

  Joni gave him a tight smile. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d allow me to handle this, sir. Otherwise we’ll have to take Nick back to Force HQ.’

  ‘No!’ Rosie said, giving her father-in-law an imploring look. ‘Please, Michael.’

  The major general nodded and sat back with his arms crossed.

  ‘So, Nick,’ Joni resumed, ‘you told us you didn’t see anyone you recognised in Burwell Street.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the young man said. ‘Apart from my friends.’

  Joni locked on to his eyes – they were dark brown and had unusually long lashes. He was already a heartbreaker. ‘The problem is, I don’t believe you.’

  Rosie’s mouth opened, while Michael’s brow furrowed.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nick stared at her. ‘I was looking out of the slit in the traffic light. It was dark. All I saw was a crowd of people, then that half-dressed woman.’

  ‘The slit is almost two inches wide and over seven inches long.’

  Pete Rokeby blinked. Had the DI actually measured it? He hadn’t thought of doing that.

  ‘Also, as I remember, the street lights were fully functioning. You could see perfectly well, even though you had reduced peripheral vision.’ Joni pushed her cup and plate away and leaned towards Nick. ‘You saw someone you knew. Tell me who it was.’

  ‘I … no, I didn’t. You think the people I know go to prostitutes?’

  ‘Tell me who it was,’ Joni repeated.

  The young man’s face reddened, but he didn’t speak.

  ‘Why are you so sure he saw someone?’ his mother asked. ‘Why’s it important?’

  ‘Was it a teacher?’ Joni asked, ignoring the parental intervention. ‘One of your friends’ fathers?’

  ‘No!’ Nick said immediately. ‘No!’

  Joni let him stew. Rosie Etherington’s second question was harder to answer than her first, not that she intended explaining herself. She knew Nick was lying because it was her job to know when people lied. Why she thought it mattered was beyond her, but her subconscious, her soul, whatever name she wanted to give the workings of her inner being that were beyond her comprehension, was telling her to press the point. But the schoolboy wasn’t answering. Why? Fear was the most likely explanation.

  She took out her wallet and removed one of her cards. She slid it across the table and put her pen next to it. ‘Write the name down. I can’t guarantee there won’t be consequences – you’re bright enough to understand that – but I’ll treat the information with the utmost respect and confidentiality.’

  Nick Etherington’s eyes dropped to the objects in front of him. He picked up the pen with his right hand and reached for the card with his left. Then he seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped, the pen dropping from his fingers.

  ‘I didn’t … I didn’t see anyone I know.’

  The major general pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly across the stone flags. ‘That’s enough, DI Pax. The lad’s given you his answer. If you take this any further, I’m going to call our lawyer.’

  Joni got to her feet and met his gaze. ‘No need to do that, sir. I’ve got what I came for. Come on, DS Rokeby. Thanks for the tea, Mrs Etherington.’ She stretched across the table and retrieved her pen. ‘Keep the card, Nick. You can call me any time, day or night.’

  Back in the Land Rover, Pete Rokeby said, ‘What was it you came for then, ma’am?’

  Joni smiled. ‘That would be telling.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t the tea. You didn’t touch it.’

  She laughed. ‘Excellent observational skills.’ She reversed on to the road. ‘The thing is, Nick Etherington lives a very protected life. Good school, grandfather chauffeurs him around, mates always with him. What’s he got to be afraid of?’

  ‘Maybe he’s got in with some bad lads. Drugs, whatever.’

  ‘That might explain why they went to Burwell Street, now we know the Albanians were dealing dope as well as pimping those poor women.’ She glanced at the DC. ‘Does he look like a user to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or a pusher?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So we’re back where we started. He saw someone at the brothel whose presence put the shits up him.’

  Rokeby took his life in his hands. ‘Seems a bit circumstantial, ma’am.’

  ‘Everything’s circumstantial, Pete. Until it isn’t.’

  ‘Is that what they say in the Met?’

  Joni shook her head. ‘They don’t like instinctive policing any more than the next force.’

  So it’s just you, DS Rokeby thought. DI Joni Pax follows her instincts. If I want to get on in Pofnee, I need to make sure she doesn’t influence me too much.

  Joni looked at him. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not asking you to do as I do.’

  Pete Rokeby sat back, wondering how the hell she knew what he’d been thinking.

  43

  Suzana was back in the park where she’d left her bags in the morning. She’d walked around the centre of the town, taking in the main features and memorising them. She now knew how to get to the train and bus stations, the quickest ways out of Cor-ham should someone pick up her trail. She’d gone into a bookshop and found a small dictionary of English and Italian. In the village she had followed the subtitles on the Italian n
ews broadcasts and picked up some words. She had also bought a map of the area. She looked up other words in the Italian part of the dictionary and mouthed their English equivalents.

  ‘Cash. Go a-wa-y. On-e sing-le tick-et to Lon-don.’

  She was so engrossed that she didn’t notice the figures approaching her from right, left and straight ahead.

  ‘Who’s this then?’

  Suzana looked up, her stomach clenching. A young man in a shirt with vertical black-and-white stripes was standing about five metres in front of her. She immediately felt nauseous. Many men in that shirt – she guessed it was a football team’s – had been to her room in the slave house. This one had short hair brushed to a peak above his forehead and a spotty face.

  ‘Le-av-e me a-lon-e,’ she said, pulling the bag with her weapons closer.

  There were bursts of laughter from him and the two other youths she’d failed to notice on each side of the bench.

  ‘What did she say?’ yelled one.

  ‘Le-av-e me a-lon-e,’ repeated the young man in front of her. ‘What are you? Chinese?’

  ‘Go a-wa-y,’ Suzana said firmly.

  ‘Go a-wa-y!’ repeated the three, collapsing in mirth.

  ‘Go ’awaii 5–0?’ said the one to the left.

  ‘Not from round here, are you?’ black-and-white shirt said, moving closer. ‘Maybe we can show you some of the local, er…’ He looked at his mates and grinned. ‘…cock.’

  That was a word Suzana had heard before, too often. The men said it when they wanted her to touch their penises or put her mouth on them. She slipped her hand into the bag beside her.

  ‘The bushes behind’ll do,’ the youth to her right said.

  ‘Hey, bitch, what’s in the bag?’ black-and-white said, making a grab for it.

  ‘Go-od bla-d-e,’ Suzana said, slashing the carving knife at his hand.

  He leapt back and landed on his backside, blood flowing copiously.

  ‘Grab the cunt,’ he gasped, clutching the wound with his other hand.

  Suzana pulled another blade from the bag. This one was shorter, but honed on both sides. The other young men tried to grab her, but they weren’t quick enough. One nearly lost the tip of a finger and the other had his shoulder run through.

  ‘Go a-wa-y!’ she screamed, waving the blades like a Celtic warrior maiden.

  Her assailants backed off, cursing loudly. She leaped at them and they ran down the slope like terrified sheep.

  ‘Thank yo-u,’ Suzana said, wiping the knives on the grass and gathering her things together. She was over the wall and out of the park in less than two minutes. For now she was safe, but she had to get out of town tonight.

  44

  In his office, Heck wasn’t doing well. He had the cancer blues and he was trembling. He took some deep breaths and managed to get a grip, disgusted with himself. He’d turned into a coward and he didn’t even have the balls to tell Ag. Then he saw Joni Pax and DS Rokeby come into the MCU. He picked up his mobile phone and put it to his ear, raising his other hand to buy himself some time. When he was on more of an even keel, he beckoned Joni in.

  After giving him a questioning look, she reported about Nick Etherington.

  ‘Sounds like a dead end to me,’ Heck said, when she’d finished. ‘Maybe he saw one of his father’s friends. That wouldn’t make him too happy, what with his Dad having died.’

  ‘Why didn’t he say so, then? Even if he didn’t give the name.’

  ‘Dead end,’ Heck repeated. ‘Besides, you don’t want to mess with Michael Etherington. He was one of the few NATO people to get the Bosnian Serbs to negotiate.’

  Joni sat down on the sofa. ‘Was he in Kosovo, sir?’

  ‘No idea. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Well, I’m not a Balkan expert, but I know that Kosovo shares a border with Albania and that the majority of Kosovo’s population is Albanian.’

  Heck sat back, his hands behind his head. ‘What are you suggesting? That General Michael was at the brothel?’

  ‘No, he’s got an alibi from his daughter-in-law. But he still may be involved.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Joni, what are you on about? You think Michael Etherington has some connection with the Albanians.’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘Maybe Nick saw someone his grandfather knows in Burwell Street.’

  ‘All this from a hunch? The ACC will tear it to shreds.’

  ‘Not if I find out more. For a start, we can check his service record right now. There’ll be plenty of newspaper reports.’

  Heck looked at his computer screen with ill-disguised aversion. ‘Be my guest. I have enough trouble with the Pofnee system.’

  Joni went round to his side of the desk and pulled the keyboard closer. Within seconds she’d found a newspaper report marking the end of Michael Etherington’s service in the Balkans.

  ‘He was in Kosovo from June 1999 to April 2001.’

  ‘Which proves nothing.’

  ‘No, sir, but it piques my interest.’

  ‘Oh, it does, does it? Well, take that pique to your own desk and get on with something useful. See what you can find out about this Popi clan or whatever it is. Ruth Dickie’s already squeezing my nuts.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Joni turned at the door. ‘I don’t suppose Morrie’s turned anything up.’

  ‘Not a lot, but listen to this. A woman I know in Corham Gardens had her shed burgled last night. I sent the SOCOs down – don’t ask, the woman can make Ag’s life difficult – and guess who’d been there?’

  ‘General Michael?’

  ‘No, the Albanian woman you chased. What was her name?’

  ‘Suzana.’ There was sudden tingling in Joni’s upper spine. ‘Suzana Noli.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Her fingerprints were all over the place. She stole food and clothing. DC Andrews has got the report.’

  ‘She was long gone, no doubt.’

  ‘She was indeed.’ Heck peered at her. ‘What is it, lass?’

  Joni ran her hand over her forehead. ‘Nothing.’ She turned to go and cannoned into Eileen Andrews.

  ‘Oops, sorry, ma’am. You both might want to hear this. Uniform responded to a call from a lady who lives on the west side of Star Park. She saw three lads approach a young woman who was sitting on a bench. There was some kind of set-to and they ran off. She saw blood and, she thought, knives. The woman chucked plastic bags over the rear wall of the park and climbed after them.’

  ‘When was this?’ Joni asked.

  ‘The call was logged at 3.39 and the officers called it in after they finished talking to the woman at 4.43.’

  ‘She’ll be well away by now,’ Heck said.

  ‘Uniform have got a description of the woman and it’s been issued to all patrols. Not a huge amount to go on. Dark hair in a ponytail under a woolly hat, a dark leather jacket and mud-coloured trousers.’

  ‘It has to be Suzana,’ Joni said. ‘She knows her way around knives.’

  Heck nodded. ‘Thanks, Eileen. Let us know if anything more comes in.’

  Joni went to her desk and stared at the blank screen. She was seeing Suzana Noli walking into the darkness, lugging her bags and looking around constantly. She was friendless, wanted for murder and very far from home. It was likely she’d never been allowed out of the brothel and had no idea where she was. Aged seventeen, the target of the enraged and merciless bastards who had enslaved her and now the sworn enemy of local yobs. Joni wished she could rescue her, clean her up and let her sleep on her sofa.

  She shook the thought away and switched on her computer. The only way to save the Suzanas of the world was to cut off the head of the gangs that abused them. She had a rendezvous with the Popi.

  45

  Moonbeam Pax dropped a bay leaf into the vegetable stew she’d prepared and put it in the oven. It was good to be cooking for a man again. Her recent conquests hadn’t lasted long enough to merit dinner. The last had been a twenty-year-old she’d given a lift to on her way back from Aln
wick a month ago. She’d immediately seen in his eyes that he fancied her, despite the wrinkles on her face and her sagging breasts – she’d given up wearing a bra when she left school and, despite numerous battles with headmasters and mistresses, had stuck to that decision throughout her teaching career. He was an amusing enough diversion, not least because he’d looked like he was going to faint when she let him in the back door. She’d forgotten she had a frog and a bat stretched out to dry on the kitchen island. That hadn’t stopped him grabbing her still firm buttocks as she led him upstairs. She’d guessed how it would be, so she stroked him to climax before he’d got his trousers off. A quarter of an hour later, he lasted long enough for her to orgasm. She always used her own fingers to do that, regardless of what her knuckles might do to the men’s bladders. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d reneged on his promise to call her. She liked it when she scared them and, besides, she wouldn’t have had him back. He was weak.

  Looking across her small back garden, Moonbeam took in the moors to the west. She’d given up teaching before she got her full pension, so she hadn’t been able to live any nearer her childhood town of Corham. Not that she was bothered. It suited her to be on the outskirts of the small village twenty-five miles to the north. Billham was perfect. The old people accepted she was an odd one, the middle-aged found her amusing (not that they invited her into their homes, even though, or rather because she’d had sex with several of the husbands and one of the wives) and the young people bought the drugs she brought from Alnwick every week. She used to do her pick-up in Corham, but there had recently been disruption when some brutal new gang forced its way in. Besides, she didn’t want to compromise her daughter. The cottage she rented from the Favon estate was cheap and had its own free water supply, even if the colour was sometimes a bit disturbing. It didn’t matter. Moonbeam had a herbal remedy for everything, dodgy water included. And now the spells she’d cast for years were finally working. All would be as it had been and all would be well.

  She had strong hopes that Joni would see the light, despite the twin barriers of rationalism and prejudice she had erected when she was still a little girl. Things were different now. After years of rejection, of claiming in the piping voice she used to have that she was an atheist, of going to the snobs’ university and then throwing it all away to become a servant of the oppressive state, Joni needed Moonbeam. The fact that she’d moved to Northumberland was proof. Her daughter had become a victim. She’d been damaged physically and mentally, and was struggling to cope. That brought her closer to being one of the elect. Only through suffering could true wisdom be obtained, but you had to be born with the powers to move higher up the scale.