The Tangled Lock (The National Crime Agency Series Book 3)

by Bill Rogers

  ‘I’d better leave too,’ Jo said. ‘I’ll call DCI Ince, and tell him I’m on my way.’

  By the time she reached her car, the rain had stopped. In the east, rays of the rising sun streaming through a squally shower had created a perfect rainbow. It seemed to Jo both incongruous and appropriate. Which is it? she wondered. A sign of hope, a bridge between this world and the next? Or a beguiling promise, doomed to disappoint?

  Chapter 24

  ‘What are the chances it was Henshall?’

  Jo felt obliged to ask. Harvey Ince pointed to a modern semi-detached house forty yards down the road. It looked unloved compared to the houses on either side. The small garden was overgrown. Paint peeled from several of the window frames.

  ‘He’s been in there since 2pm yesterday afternoon. We’ve had eyes on him all that time, back and front.’

  Jo frowned.

  ‘Two pm? Why wasn’t he at work?’

  ‘Good question. It seems that shortly after the DCI informed him he was being loaned out to one of the Category B Cold Case teams for a couple of weeks, he complained of feeling unwell, and signed himself off work.’

  ‘The transfer may have spooked him,’ said Jo. ‘Perhaps he suspects we’re on to him.’

  ‘Fortunately one of my teams was already in situ. The other one followed him home and then took up residence in the street whose houses back on to Henshall’s.’

  ‘He could still have left by the back door,’ she said. ‘Clambered over the fences of the adjoining gardens, then slipped out through a side gate while your officers were watching the front.’

  Ince shook his head. ‘He didn’t.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘State-of-the-art surveillance. Both of our vehicles have cameras giving three-sixty-degree CCTV capture. One operative watches the target, another watches the screens. Plus we’ve got directional microphones trained on his house. They know what he’s watching on the television, listening to on the radio, even when he goes to the loo. Trust me, he hasn’t left the house.’

  ‘You have to make sure though,’ she said. ‘Besides, if he does suspect he’s under investigation he could be quietly destroying evidence. I would if it was me.’

  ‘I’ll remember you said that.’

  It sounded like a joke, although with Professional Standards Branch you could never be sure. She remembered when it had been changed from Internal Affairs. Someone had pointed out that there were that many affairs between serving officers, including some of the most senior ones, that the name had become a running joke. Not just within the Force, but among the public too.

  ‘You are going in though,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  He reached into his inside breast pocket, removed a neatly folded A4 sheet and held it up.

  ‘Right now.’

  He pressed the button on the radio transmitter.

  ‘Papa 2 report please.’

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Nothing to report,’ came the reply. ‘All clear here.’

  ‘Papa 3 report please.’

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Target has just entered the lounge, and switched on the television.’

  Jo stared at the house. The curtains were still drawn. There was no telltale flicker of light from either of the downstairs rooms.

  ‘Papa 1 to all units,’ said Ince, ‘we are good to go. Charlie Sierra India, with me please. Romeo Sierra 4, Papa 2, and Papa 3, remain on station. Let’s keep it low-profile, everybody. No need to wake the neighbours.’

  Jo looked at her watch. It was 5.45am. Lights were on in some of the other houses. A car was backing out of a drive three houses down from Henshall’s, the driver staring in their direction.

  Ince had already unbuckled his seat belt and was opening the door. Together they walked towards the house. An unmarked car pulled up across the drive to Henshall’s house. Two men and a woman climbed out. One of the men opened the boot and took out a large cardboard box, and a clipboard. The female officer removed a sleek aluminium case, and closed the boot. The five of them walked down the tarmacked drive and gathered at the front door.

  Ince’s finger hovered over the doorbell. There was muted laughter from behind the blackout curtains. He looked over his shoulder to check they were ready.

  ‘This is a serving officer,’ he said, ‘assessed as minimum risk. We are not doing shock and awe. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Boss,’ the search team chorused.

  He pressed the bell. The response took them all by surprise.

  ‘Ding dong! Ding dong!’ yelled a familiar American cartoon voice. ‘If that’s my pizza, keep it hot till I get there.’

  ‘What a joker,’ Ince observed sourly.

  The greeting was repeating for a third time when the length of curtain closest to the front door was drawn back. Henshall peered out at them. He was unshaven, his hair dishevelled, and his face pale and drawn. There were dark rings beneath his eyes. He looked surprised. The curtain fell back. Thirty seconds later the door opened.

  Henshall turned, and walked back down the hall without a word. He led them into the first room on the right. The search team closed the door behind them, and remained in the hall. Jo and DCI Ince followed Henshall into what proved to be a lounge.

  Henshall sat down on a three-seat sofa. He was wearing a dressing gown that had seen better times over a pair of pyjama bottoms. His feet were on a coffee table. Beside them were a half-empty mug of tea, a box of flu powders, and a man-size box of tissues. There was a Frasier repeat on the television.

  ‘This is what I call over the top,’ he said, his gaze fixed on the television. ‘Coming mob-handed to check if I’m pulling a sickie.’

  It was a brave attempt, Jo thought, but for the quaver in his voice.

  ‘Are you,’ said Ince, ‘pulling a sickie?’

  Henshall looked up at him. ‘Could be man flu, could be the real thing. I didn’t want to take the risk of infecting the syndicate, did I?’

  ‘Very noble of you,’ said Jo. ‘Nothing to do with your being loaned out then.’

  Henshall attempted a smile. ‘Far from it. I regard that as a promotion. Just me, a DI, and a load of old pensioners. Makes me his deputy, doesn’t it?’

  Ince decided to put an end to the charade. He picked up the TV remote, switched the television off, and dropped the remote on the sofa.

  ‘Detective Constable Henshall,’ he said, ‘my name is Detective Chief Inspector Harvey Ince. I am with the Professional Standards Branch. SI Stuart you already know. I am here to arrest you in order that you may be questioned in relation to possible misconduct in a public office. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  Despite Henshall’s attempt to maintain a mask of total incomprehension, Jo spotted the tiny flicker of fear in his eyes.

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he said.

  ‘What don’t you understand?’

  ‘What I’m supposed to have done. I have the right to be told.’

  That was true. And although they were under no obligation to tell him until he was formally interviewed, Jo could see no reason not to tell him. If he was guilty, he would know anyway. If he was innocent, it would make no difference. Ince arrived at the same conclusion.

  ‘You will be questioned,’ he said, ‘in connection with allegations that you used your position as a police officer to procure, through intimidation, the sexual services of one or more female sex workers.’

  Henshall looked shaken. ‘This is bullshit!’ he said.

  ‘In which case,’ Ince told him, ‘we should be able to clear it up in no time.’ He held up the warrant. ‘I have here a warrant to search these premises, and any vehicles belonging to, or used by, you. Also to seize any property or effects that I reasonably believe may be connected with the
se allegations. I suggest you get dressed.’

  In the hall the search team had put on their Tyvek suits, gloves, and overboots. They had been briefed to begin with his car, since that was the only part of the property that was identified as a potential crime scene. Jo decided to accompany them to the garage. The large family saloon took up so much of the space that there was barely enough room to open the doors.

  Jack Benson had arrived with a small team of crime scene investigators. He shook his head. ‘Can’t search the vehicle in here,’ he said. ‘I need you to wait in the drive, Ma’am.’

  Jo watched impatiently as the car was driven out on to the driveway. Benson exited the car, and walked across to her.

  ‘Good news, or bad news?’ she said.

  ‘Bad news,’ Benson replied. ‘I’m guessing he’s cleaned it inside and out within the last twenty-four hours. Good news is it’s not a professional valet, so there’s a reasonable chance he’ll have missed something. We’ve arranged for it to be flat-loaded, and taken back to the garage so we can do a thorough forensic examination. We’ll do a basic visual check first. Is there anything in particular we’re looking for?’

  ‘A rug or a small carpet – something like that,’ she told him. ‘Any floor covering that’s not standard for this car. It could be in the vehicle, the garage, or elsewhere in the house.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Collections of human hair. Short or long, loose, twisted, or braided. And anything else that might suggest an obsession with women’s hair in particular.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Photographs, magazines, wigs. Honestly? I’m not sure. Just record and bag anything you think might fit such a preoccupation. Oh, and any diaries or journals. If you’re in any doubt, give me a shout and I’ll come and have a look.’

  ‘Is this it?’

  The female CSI stepped back from the open boot of the car. With her gloved right hand she held aloft a cream rug approximately three foot long by two feet wide. It was an exact match for the one independently described by all three of the girls. Jo didn’t know whether to be elated or deeply saddened. She wondered if this was how Ince felt every time he snared a bent cop.

  ‘Where was it?’ she asked.

  ‘Folded in two and laid over the spare tyre beneath the boot floor carpet.’ She lifted a label on the underside, and proceeded to read out loud.

  ‘Heavyweight, Non-shedding, Dense Pile Carpet. Colour – Cream. Technique: Shag.’

  ‘Fit for purpose then,’ observed the third CSI.

  Just the kind of remark that Henshall would have made, Jo reflected. The female CSI pulled a face but carried on.

  ‘Machine Made in England. Professional Clean Only. It’s been cleaned recently by the looks of it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ince told Jo. ‘If there’s anything deep in that pile – and there will be, trust me – we’ll find it.’

  Chapter 25

  From the outside, were it not for the window display full of colourful stickers announcing this week’s special offers, it could easily have been mistaken for just another two-storey clothes factory.

  Max opened the door.

  As he stepped inside, his presence was heralded by the first four bars of the Radetzky March.

  Given the length and breadth of this supermarket, he could understand why the owners would want to know when people entered and left the establishment. Though why they’d chosen Strauss rather than a Hungarian composer was a mystery.

  Despite the early hour there were already a handful of customers. At the far end of the shop a thick-set middle-aged man wearing a blue apron that strained against a generous belly was serving at the checkout. Max walked towards him past a chiller section full of salami, speck sausages, and chicken frankfurters. On the other side of the aisle, two of the shelves held tins of pork and pork liver. A young woman was busy stacking the remaining shelves with dozens of bottles of sour cherry squash.

  He waited patiently for the man to finish serving an elderly woman for whom this was clearly more than a simple shopping expedition. He assumed they were conversing in Hungarian, but it didn’t take a genius to know that chatting about the weather, her current state of health, and what the world was coming to was an essential part of the service.

  The man smiled, and nodded for the final time, took a packet of sweets from the counter beside him, slipped it into her bag, and waved her goodbye.

  He turned to Max and shrugged apologetically. ‘Tejkaramella,’ he said. ‘Creamy fudge. Sometimes I think they’re the only reason she comes in here.’

  ‘That and the conversation,’ said Max.

  The man smiled. ‘That too.’ He looked down at the empty counter and then back at Max.

  Max held up his ID. ‘Are you the owner?’

  The man nodded warily.

  ‘I need to talk with you,’ Max said. ‘About Clara.’

  ‘Clara? I don’t know any Clara.’

  ‘I understand that she rented a room from you upstairs. Along with her friend Natalia.’

  Comprehension dawned, followed swiftly by suspicion.

  ‘Not Clara, Flora,’ he said. ‘You mean Flora.’ He shook his head. ‘I have not seen her this morning. Maybe she came back already. I can get my daughter to check if you like.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Max told him. ‘But I do need to speak with you about her. In private.’

  The young woman who had been stacking the shelves took over at the checkout. The owner led Max to a small office at the rear, where he had no option but to sit low down in a battered and uncomfortable armchair. Behind the desk the owner slumped on to a swivel chair, which protested noisily.

  ‘What are you, Immigration?’ he asked. ‘Because I can tell you she’s Hungarian, like me. EEC. So she’s entitled, no? Free movement?’ He grimaced. ‘For now at least.’

  ‘Can we start with your name please, sir?’ said Max.

  ‘Matayas Boros,’ he replied nervously. ‘I’m her landlord. It’s not a crime, is it?’

  ‘No, Mr Boros. But that is not why I’m here. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

  Boros clenched his fists, and shook his head.

  ‘Istenem nem!’ he said in disbelief.

  ‘The body of a young woman was found not far from here in the early hours of the morning. We were led to believe that she may have been your tenant.’

  The blood drained from the landlord’s face. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He groped in the pocket of his apron, took out a crumpled handkerchief, and mopped his face with it. Max wondered if the man was going to faint. Instead he clasped his hands together, rocked back and forth, and muttered a torrent of words. It sounded like a cross between a lamentation and a protest. Had the girl been his daughter, he could not have appeared more distressed. Max waited patiently for him to recover.

  ‘Mr Boros,’ he said when the outpouring had become a trickle, ‘we don’t know for certain that it is Flora.’

  ‘I warned her,’ Boros replied. ‘I told her if she didn’t stop it would end like this. Foolish girl.’

  ‘Perhaps if you were to describe her to me, sir.’

  He mopped his face again, thrust the handkerchief back into the pocket, and gripped the edge of the desk with his hands.

  ‘She was a beautiful girl,’ Boros said. ‘More beautiful before I think.’

  ‘Before what, Mr Boros?’

  The owner made eye contact. Wondering if he had been wrong to jump to conclusions. Maybe it wasn’t her after all.

  ‘Before she started doing what she does.’

  He saw that the policeman understood. Dropped his eyes. Fell silent.

  ‘Mr Boros,’ Max prompted. ‘What did Flora look like?’

  Boros reached forward and took hold of a five-by-seven-inch brushed aluminium photo frame beside the computer. He stared at it for a moment and then turned it so Max could see for himself.

  ‘An angel,’ he said. ‘She looked like an angel.
’

  Max saw instantly that the photograph was of the victim. Except that in this photo she was smiling, happy, and alive.

  Chapter 26

  It was a selfie taken on a carefree trip to the city centre.

  Flora was in the centre, to her left the supermarket owner’s daughter, and to her right another girl with short black hair, a few years her senior. Manchester Town Hall’s clock tower formed the backdrop.

  ‘The dead girl,’ said Boros. ‘It’s Flora, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Max. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Boros reached down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. He held on to the desk to prevent the chair from toppling over, and taking him with it. He removed a bottle of clear liquid and two shot glasses and placed them on the desk. The contents appeared slightly oily, leaving a distinct smear on the neck as the natural level was restored. Boros unscrewed the top, and filled one of the glasses.

  ‘Not for me thank you,’ said Max.

  Boros nodded. Lifted the glass. Threw back his head, drained the glass, and poured a second, which he downed as swiftly. He began to pour again.

  ‘Mr Boros,’ said Max firmly, ‘there will be plenty of time for you to finish that bottle when I’m gone. For now I need you to keep a clear head.’

  He lifted the glass, held it suspended between desk and lips for what seemed an eternity, and then put it back down again. He nodded.

  ‘Of course. What is it you want to know?’

  ‘When you rented her the room. Everything and anything you know about her, and her friend.’

  Boros turned the photo to face him, and stared at the image of Flora. ‘They turned up one evening in February. They’d seen the advert in the window. A two-bedroom flat to rent. Upstairs. They offered cash. Enough for the deposit. At first I wasn’t going to let them have it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they had no papers. No passport, no személyi igazolvány.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Személyi igazolvány. Our national ID card. It’s not compulsory, but most Hungarians carry one. Especially young kids like these, who don’t have a driving licence. I could see they were desperate, but . . .’ He shrugged. ‘They had no papers. I didn’t even know for sure how old they were.’