by Mark Roberts
‘Come on, Jas.’ She followed him as he took the stairs two at a time. ‘Raymond, hey, answer me!’
Reaching Raymond’s bedroom door, Jack looked in and saw his brother fully clothed and curled up in a foetal ball. He looked around the squalor of his brother’s room, the clothes strewn across the floor, the tangle of sheets stale with bodily fluids beneath his unwashed frame, the brimming ashtray, matches and Rizla papers at the side of his bed.
His eyes settled on a forgotten box in an ignored corner of the room. In an unloved and chaotic space, it was the only window onto anything good. Jack walked over to it and lifted the lid.
The plastic bottles of poster paints and tubes of oil paints sat next to pots of immaculately clean brushes, set out in order of size. There was a range of palettes for mixing colours, empty jars for watercolours and a thick roll of quality art paper. Thick coloured card poked out from a blue plastic wallet at the back of the box, next to spray paints and cardboard templates. Jack reached down the side of the wardrobe and pulled out a wooden easel and placed it back.
Then he went to the bathroom and turned on the hot tap.
In Raymond’s room, he pulled back the curtains and opened the window as wide as it would go. He sat on the end of Jack’s bed and Jasmine climbed up onto his knee.
‘Wake up, Raymond!’
But his brother didn’t flicker until Jasmine barked three times at top note. Raymond lifted his head and looked at Jasmine and Jack as if there was a dense fog in the room.
‘What’s that noise?’
‘It’s the bath running. You stink, Raymond.’
‘I’m not well.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Jack saw Raymond’s phone on the mattress, close to where it had fallen from his limp hand as he’d fallen asleep.
Raymond squinted and rubbed his eyes. ‘What do you want, Ja-Ja-Ja...’
‘Here it comes. The return of the childhood stammer, as in don’t bother asking me anything because you’ll have to wait till Christmas for an answer.’ Jack picked up Raymond’s phone. ‘Who is she?’
‘You... ask me th-that... be-be-before?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Who do you mean?’
Jack started unlocking Raymond’s phone.
‘Give it back to me.’
‘If you leave your number lying around, what can you expect? She says her name’s Dominika,’ said Jack.
‘Give it to me.’
Jack showed Raymond Dominika’s Facebook profile picture. ‘Who is she?’
Raymond looked around, covered his face with his hands and talked to the ceiling. ‘She sent me a friend request on F-Facebook last Wednesday. I didn’t know who she was but her profile picture was nice, she was fit. I accepted. She sent me a message, asked me where I lived. She told me she lived in Garston and that maybe we should meet up. I said, Yeah. Then she didn’t get back in touch for a couple of days and I thought, Well fuck that then. Then on Saturday night, she asked me if I wanted to see a picture of her? Yeah.’
‘You didn’t think it was odd?’ Jack turned Raymond’s phone towards him, showed him the image of Dominika with her back to the camera, bending forwards and looking through her parted legs at the viewer. ‘She looks nothing like Dominika in the profile picture you were sent. She’s a good fifteen years older, Raymond, and judging by the look of her she’s from one of the Eastern block...’
‘It’s my business.’
‘You to her: Send me a film of yourself... Her to you: Shall we meet first? You to her: Yeah, when?’
‘Stop it, Jack.’
‘She told you she’s from the Czech Republic. I don’t get it, Raymond. I thought you hated all immigrants?’
Raymond turned onto his side and buried his face in the pillow. A stream of language flooded from his mouth and was lost in the pillow slip.
‘Look at me, Raymond!’ Jack grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him up into a sitting position. ‘Didn’t you think it was just a little bit strange this woman who you’ve never met is sending you pornographic images of herself?’
Raymond placed his hands over his eyes and dragged his fingers down his face.
‘You came in here the night before last, early hours, full of yourself.’
‘But you didn’t see me.’
‘I did see you. I watched you come in like you were the king, and I thought, What’s he been up to? You won’t tell me what you did which is unusual because you can’t hold your own water when you’ve pulled some stunt, so I can only conclude you’ve done something really heavy duty. Are you going to tell me what?’
‘I told you, we robbed a car and torched it.’
‘I don’t believe you. You hardly slept, you woke up and were still full of yourself. But look at you now. You’re an open book, Raymond. You’re traumatised.’ Jack tapped Raymond’s forehead with his index finger. ‘It’s hit home. You and your goons have punched above your weight this time. Haven’t you?’
‘It’s freezing, Jack.’
‘Put your clothes in the basket and get in the bath.’
‘We robbed a car, that’s all.’
‘Raymond, I’ve had this conversation with you for Mum’s sake. Why don’t you stop your stupidity for her sake?’
Raymond sat up on the bed and kicked off his trainers.
‘I’m going to open a few windows downstairs to let the stench out. One thing. Have you met up with Dominika yet?’
As Jack walked out of the room, Raymond spoke.
‘What was that, Raymond?’
‘I said, no I haven’t.’
Raymond listened to Jack going downstairs. When he was safely out of earshot, he spoke softly to himself. ‘Yes I fucking did meet up with her. When was the last time you got laid, dickhead?’
51
6.03 pm
At the desk he’d requested for its closeness to the incident room’s kitchen, DC Clive Winters turned over the last photocopied page of Lucy Bell’s handwritten diary and said, ‘You poor cow.’
‘Lucy Bell’s Groundhog Day?’ asked Cole.
‘It makes her Facebook page look like a wild night in Las Vegas. Jesus, the attention to detail’s just mind-bending. Every day is the same. Every time is rigid. Wake up. Get up. Pray. Wash. Eat. Uni. Home. 6.13 pm each and every night. Eat. Then she’s either marking essays by her students, working on her thesis, or skivvying at Levene House. Then it’s go to bed. Pray. Sleep. Wake up, repeat...’
‘Does she do anecdotes?’ asked Cole. ‘What are the weekends like?’
‘Pretty much the same. Every other Saturday, she travels to HM Prison Liverpool where she visits prisoners who have no one else coming to see them.’
‘One prisoner in particular?’
‘No. I reckon after the first visit, the prisoners tell the screws not to let her anywhere near them. She must know they don’t want to see her and yet she persists in going. I’ll be honest with you, Barney. I’m sorry for her. She means well. But the road to hell and all that.’
‘Did she write an account of finding Marta Ondřej?’
‘Oh, yeah!’ Winters consulted his notebook and read out loud, ‘I found Marta Ondřej in the Wavertree Mystery and called the police. When I heard sirens approaching, I left her and went to catch the bus into uni.’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Sure.’ Winters stood and scooped up the photocopied pages. ‘You think I’ve been bored into missing something?’
‘No, it’s just a second pair of eyes.’
Winters placed the photocopied diary down on Cole’s desk.
‘I feel like a massive shot of Jack Daniels,’ said Winters.
‘As soon as this is sorted out I’ll join you, and it’s on me.’
52
6.15 pm
Detective Constable Eve Clay made her way from the car park of Trinity Road Police Station to the main building, shivering as she pressed her iPhone to her ear.
‘Eve,’ said DC Barney Cole, ‘I�
��ve got two things for you. The graffiti from the Adamczak murder scene, first. Where are you?’
‘Heading in to the funny farm. What’s with the graffiti?’
‘Well, you know I told you it represents Black Sun... I’ve found out more about it now. It’s an esoteric symbol to do with old magic. It was seized on by the Nazis, Heinrich Himmler and the SS in particular. They were based in Wewelsburg Castle where they had a green sun wheel laid in the marble on the first floor of the north tower, which was the centre of the world according to Himmler. These lot were into weird mystical mind-fuckery. They’d plan archaeological expeditions to go and find stuff like the Spear of Destiny.’
‘Good work, Barney. The only graffiti they could have left that was more screamingly Nazi was a swastika. Where are you now?’
‘Heading down to reception to meet you. I’ve heard back from the Polish police about the Adamczak twins.’
*
‘Eve,’ said Sergeant Harris as Clay entered the building. ‘You’re popular today. You have a visitor.’ He pointed at a row of blue seats attached to the wall with bolts. An elderly and burly man in a black coat, holding a grey trilby hat, stood up with a large Home Bargains bag in his right hand.
‘Father Aaron, can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to talk to you about Sister Ruth.’
‘Shall we go somewhere quiet to talk?’
‘One and Two are free,’ said Sergeant Harris.
‘Follow me, Father Aaron.’
Just then, Cole hurried into reception through the swing doors.
‘Eve...’
‘Barney, I...’
‘I’ll be very brief, I promise,’ said Father Aaron Bell.
Cole raised a thumb.
‘Step this way please, Father Aaron.’
As Clay took two chairs away from the table in Interview Suite 2, Father Aaron Bell said, ‘I’ve never been in a police interview suite before. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been in a police station before.’
Clay set the chair down for the priest and sat directly in front of him.
‘You have some news for me, Father Aaron?’
‘Yes, I thought it best to let you know personally. Sister Ruth isn’t in good physical health but her mind’s lucid and she’s as eloquent as ever. I went to see her after you visited me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Your colleague requires your attention. So. Sister Ruth remembers you when you were a child in St Claire’s and St Michael’s perfectly. And she is more than happy to communicate with you. She has asked me, though, to act as intermediary for the time being while she gathers her thoughts, and so she can pray for a meaningful and rewarding journey into the past for you.’
He extended the Home Bargains bag and said, ‘This is a small present for your little boy. The book’s for when he’s older.’
Clay looked inside the bag and saw the spine of an academic text book. Entomology: Structures and Habitats. Aaron Bell. Next to the book was a clear Perspex box with a cricket inside it.
‘Philip will be thrilled with this. This is your book, right?’ she checked.
He smiled.
‘What a kind thought. Thank you, Father Aaron.’
Father Aaron Bell took a folded, snow-dampened piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Clay.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t afford a business card. You can call me anytime except nine till half nine Monday to Friday, or twelve to twelve-thirty, when I say mass in my church or at Bishop Eton. Oh, and I take confession on Wednesday from two to four in the afternoon at the Metropolitan Cathedral, not that I get many people, but I make myself available just in case.’
He stood up and the melted snow on his coat glittered like distant stars.
‘Thank you for your time, Father Aaron.’
Clay held open the door for him.
‘Do you mind me asking you, Eve – do you still keep and practise the faith?’
The temptation to lie was strong, but she was aware that bringing untruths in to the picture could harm the dynamic. ‘I was six when I lost Sister Philomena, Father Aaron.’
He looked at her and radiated kindness.
‘When she died, I lost my whole world and when my whole world was gone, my faith gradually went with it.’
He nodded. ‘I understand completely. I do. Would you mind if I started praying for you?’
‘That would be very kind of you. Thank you. I appreciate that.’
He looked at Clay and said, ‘I can see myself out. You look like you could do with a few quiet moments. God bless and keep you, Eve, and all those you hold dear. Philomena would have...’ He paused.
‘Go on, Father Aaron.’
‘She would have wanted you to have the comfort and support that faith gives to those who share it. I too would like it for you. I didn’t meet Sister Philomena personally but I’ve met a lot of people who did know her, and I’ve learned much about who she was. We should make time to discuss those impressions.’
‘That would be wonderful, Father Aaron. Thank you.’
As he shut the door, Clay sat on the chair and listened to the sound of her own breathing. Opening the paper he had given her, she read to herself, ‘Father Aaron Bell 0151 496 0113.’ She committed the phone number to memory, and felt the giddiness that always accompanied hope when it visited her heart.
53
6.32 pm
Clay found Cole in the corridor outside Interview Suite 1.
‘What have the Polish police dished on the Adamczak twins, Barney?’
She looked over his shoulder at Aneta Kaloza as Sergeant Harris accompanied her down the corridor.
‘To all intents and purposes, Karl’s as clean as the driven. Václav not so.’
‘Really?’
Clay indicated Aneta coming towards them.
‘I stayed here of my own will,’ said Aneta, as Sergeant Harris opened the door and shepherded her into the interview suite.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’
As the door to Interview Suite 1 closed, Clay said, ‘Go on, Barney?’
‘Just over two years ago, a teenage girl went missing three streets away from where the Adamczak brothers lived with their mother and sisters. When she turned up four days after going missing, she pointed the finger at Václav – said he’d lured her into a lock-up garage and held her prisoner there against her will.’
‘What happened during that time?’ asked Clay, coldness spreading to her fingers and toes.
‘Nothing was proved forensically, but she alleged he systematically sexually assaulted her. The police did issue formal warnings to Václav: keep away from teenage girls. There were a few reports to the police. One girl said he followed her home. Another that he was hanging around near the playground she and her mates went to. That he was watching them. Václav said, he walked the girl home for her safety. There’d been a fight on the playground the week before the girl reported Václav hassling her and her friends. Václav said he was protecting the girls from the violent youths who’d turned the playground into a blood bath.’
‘Overprotective or downright naive? Where was Karl when all this was going on?’ asked Clay.
‘He was out of town, working in Krakow, waiting for his brother to get better and join him on the building site. Václav was on his own in his mother’s house getting over a bout of flu. His mother and sisters couldn’t corroborate his side of any of the stories and allegations against him because they were in Warsaw, setting up a flat for the twins. The Scientific Support team combed the lock-up she claimed to have been imprisoned in. There was no forensic evidence linking Václav to the garage, or any traces of his DNA. But they did find forensic evidence linking the girl to the place.’
‘Did the lock-up belong to Václav?’
‘No, to his friend George, a local hustler who used it to store fake designer brands sourced from China and what have you. The girl claimed she didn’t know the hustler from Adam, but it was clear Václav had links to him. He had the key to th
e lock-up and was looking after it while George was on a buying trip abroad. When she was examined by the doctors there was no physical evidence of the assaults she alleged Václav committed, but she reported it two weeks after the so-called events.’
‘What was the upshot?’
‘The Polish prosecution services recommended that the police didn’t have a case that would stand up in a court of law. Some other teenage girls stepped forward once the kidnap allegation hit social media. Václav had been seen around town with another girl, buying her ice-cream, cuddly toys, perfume and clothes. Maybe he was a victim of the ‘no smoke without fire’ argument. He had a seedy reputation and that reputation turned pure bad.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Ten days after the police investigation into Václav collapsed, the same girl was back in the central police station in Pruszków, making allegations against another man.’ Cole shrugged. ‘Anyway, it seems the final allegation and subsequent inquiry was instrumental in the brothers upping sticks from Poland and trying a fresh start in Liverpool.’
Clay pointed at the door, and Aneta behind it.
‘She’ll know all about this. Let’s ask Aneta Kaloza about Václav’s taste in young girls.’
54
6.40 pm
Clay and Hendricks sat across from Aneta Kaloza, whose eyes were like windscreen wipers moving back and forth between them.
‘I’ve done the formalities,’ said Hendricks. ‘Miss Kaloza has declined legal representation.’
‘Aneta,’ said Clay. ‘I seriously advise you to have a solicitor—’
‘No. This is madness. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
Clay turned her iPhone round on the table and showed Aneta the photograph of Marta that had been circulated after her disappearance.
‘You know who this is, Aneta?’
Aneta looked at the image for a few moments and said nothing, but nodded.
‘She’s turned up.’
Clay watched Aneta but didn’t detect any increase in the anxiety and confusion that were already in her face.
