Speechless

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘Reasonable grounds for what?’

  ‘To believe he might be implicated in a double murder.’

  ‘Stretching it, boss.’

  ‘That his life might be in danger.’

  Boyd gave a look of disbelief. Whatever flak might come my way, I could deal with it later. Now I needed to find out where Gerek might be. I slipped a credit card between the Yale latch and the frame and pushed hard. The door was thin and it gave way easily under my weight.

  The room was hot and humid; the curtains were drawn but narrow shards of light skirted the edges. I left the door open and walked over to the windows, moving the curtains to one side before pushing at the casement latch to allow fresh air to flood into the room. It made a change to look at a bed-sit that was tidy. A bright, red duvet covered a single bed, which was pushed against a wall; the furniture was old but clean.

  It didn’t take us long to work our way through a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and an old bedside cabinet, its drawers broken and loose. We spread the results of our search on the bed – Polish driving licence, some loose change, and bankcards.

  ‘Can’t have gone far without these,’ I said.

  * * *

  Back at Queen Street I pondered. Do I make it a priority to look for Gerek when there might be an innocent explanation for his disappearance? The return of Woods and Lawson, raised voices, moving chairs and cans of soft drinks cracking open, all interrupted me.

  ‘There’s no sign of Pietrek,’ Woods began.

  ‘We got into his flat,’ Lawson said. ‘Legally I mean,’ he added.

  I ignored Boyd’s stare.

  ‘There was a girl in his flat who had a key and she’s been worried that he’s disappeared without telling anyone where he’s gone.’ Lawson again.

  Woods took a large mouthful of soft drink before adding, ‘We’ve been around the shops and some of the pubs the Eastern Europeans use. There’s something up, sir.’

  Lawson had a super-large bag of crisps on his desk and a sandwich to match but he found time before his lunch to add to the conversation. ‘I’d say they were frightened.’

  Woods nodded.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We couldn’t get any response. Everyone was evasive. Didn’t want to talk to us. No banter. The owners of the shops kept saying they’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Lawson took an enormous bite from the sandwich and chewed vigorously. I was getting hungry watching him.

  * * *

  I had an hour to kill before meeting Terry so I decided on some fresh air. Trish said I never did any exercise, usually while sitting on the sofa watching TV.

  I needed some lunch and time to think. I left the stuffy atmosphere of the station, cut through the side streets and back entrances of the chain stores, and walked up Queen Street. I took a right towards Boulevard De Nantes and then waited by a pedestrian crossing for the lights to turn green.

  I found a quiet table in the café at the National Gallery, away from the bustle of the office workers and teachers on trips with school children. I thought about Michal and Leon. There had to be a thread that was linking them altogether. It just couldn’t be random. I blocked out the noise from the café and tried to concentrate. And then there was Dagmara; she had caught a glimpse of Leon’s murderers and she would make a good witness, but even so, something niggled at the memory of her interview.

  After I’d finished the Americano and brushed the crumbs of the almond croissant from my tie I walked back to the foyer and then turned left into the first gallery. I never missed it. It was too good to miss. I sat down and looked at Running Away with the Hairdresser. A man and a girl were running along a street somewhere in the south of France. I tried to work out who was the hairdresser – it didn’t matter really. It was such a wonderful painting. Then it struck me that I knew why Dagmara had niggled me.

  She’d recognised the men that night.

  * * *

  A cool draught from the air-conditioning feathered my cheeks as I entered court two at the justice centre. I slipped into a seat at the back, after the usher gave me a wary look. Terry was sitting in the dock wearing a suit, looking suitably contrite. I raised my eyebrows when he turned to look at me and for a moment he lost the careful look of humility and a flash of worry passed over his eyes. The prosecutor finished outlining the facts of the case.

  On a night out around the clubs of the city, Terry’s girlfriend’s honour had been tarnished so it had to be salvaged, by a head-butt. The problem Terry faced was the CCTV cameras that had recorded the incident, which made a denial pointless.

  Glanville Tront stood up. He was tall and wore his hair in long strands pulled back from his forehead, giving him a look of an actor from a period drama.

  ‘This is a classic case of a man driven to the extremes of provocation,’ he began.

  He cleared his throat and addressed the magistrates, occasionally fluttering his hands in the air, emphasising some point or other. He tugged at the heartstrings – Terry loved his girlfriend and they’d been celebrating their engagement on the night of the assault. I looked around, half-expecting to see members of the public dabbing handkerchiefs to their eyes.

  The magistrates made notes and occasionally glanced at Terry. I was certain I saw his chin wobble. Once GTi had finished, the Chair announced that they would retire to consider their verdict and we all stood up as they filed out. Terry gave me an angry look as I walked over to the dock.

  ‘Brought a toothbrush?’ I said.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Six months, you know.’ I reminded him of the maximum sentence for common assault.

  ‘GTi’s got them sussed. What do you want?’

  ‘Our chat.’

  He glanced around furtively and hissed. ‘Not here. I told you to meet me at Leftie’s.’

  It didn’t take the magistrates long and Glanville Tront had certainly worked his magic again. The court accepted the degree of provocation, but scolded Terry and told him they were going to be lenient – this time it would be community service. Terry gave them a puppy-dog look. The suit and tie must have helped.

  When the magistrates left Terry quickly undid the tie and took off the jacket.

  ‘Good result,’ I said to Glanville Tront.

  ‘Another day, another dollar.’

  ‘I need a pint,’ Terry said impatiently.

  I left the courtroom with him. The foyer was empty. The last of the defendants had left the building.

  ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Not here. I can’t be seen with you.’

  ‘Don’t get so jumpy. You’re in court. It’s a good place.’

  Terry wasn’t convinced and he hurried off to Leftie’s, but I dawdled around the court building. An usher gave me another wary look before I passed through security, into the early autumn sunshine that tingled my skin after the coolness of the air-conditioning. I strode over the wide carriageway towards the middle of the city where the solicitors and accountants had their offices. On the opposite side of the road I took a lane that led me to Leftie’s Lounge. When Alex Leftrowski had arrived from Russia and opened his bar nobody could pronounce his name so he became Leftie. The lounge came later, when he put in some leather chesterfields in one corner and began offering coffee and tea.

  The smell of slops hit me as soon as I walked through the door.

  Stale lager and the dregs of Brains beer. Years ago I would have welcomed the smell, particularly at the end of a long day. In fact it didn’t need to be at the end of a day: it could be pretty much any time.

  There was girl standing behind the bar wearing a thin cotton sleeveless dress and a push–up bra that made the most of her natural assets. She gave me a smile and her face lit up. Mine must have too because her cheeks puckered and the smile widened. I asked for a tap water, ice but no lemon and she looked disappointed, as though my order was faintly unnatural.

  Terry was sitting on one of the chesterfields, his jacket draped over the armrest.
He had a pint of Brains and a whisky chaser in a glass with lots of ice; a packet of cigarettes sat neatly alongside the smartphone on the low table in front of him.

  I sank into the chesterfield opposite him.

  ‘Good result,’ I said.

  ‘GTi’s fucking good. The best.’

  He sipped on the beer. It had been over a year since I’d last had a drop of Brains pass my lips and when I looked at Terry I could still taste the bitter sensation in my mouth.

  ‘You’ll be painting the house for some old dear. Or cutting grass and mending fences.’

  ‘I can do gardening,’ he said, not sounding convincing.

  I got down to business. ‘Frankie Prince,’ I said. Terry’s eyes narrowed and he shushed me, even though the place was practically empty.

  ‘Look Marco. Frankie Prince is bad enough but I’ve heard that he’s in with some heavy-duty gangsters from Russia. Fucking Mafia… and they don’t take any prisoners. Anybody they don’t like…’ He imitated firing a gun with his hand.

  ‘Anything concrete?’

  Terry blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Look, I owe you. But this is different. When I asked around about Frankie Prince it was as though he’d been promoted to being the fucking prime minister or something. Things have changed. Frankie’s got really big-time and there’s a Polish gangster called Lech Balinski involved.’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Marco.’

  ‘Come on. There must be something.’

  ‘Lot of money into the clubs and lots of girls brought in. Really young too. I might have more for you in a couple of days.’

  He took another sip of the beer and chased it down with the whisky.

  ‘And this Lech character?’

  ‘He’s the money. All from Russia. They’re fucking taking over the world. On holiday last year in Costa Blanca – place full of fucking Russians.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear about your holidays.’

  ‘Stay clear of this Lech. Know his speciality?’

  I raised my eyebrows.

  ‘Cutting out tongues.’

  Chapter 13

  A week had passed since Michal’s body had been washed up in the Taff and despite feeling that I should be in the Incident Room working I had taken time off. I paid little attention to Trish’s conversation on the journey to my parents’ house. It passed in a blur, my mind trying to make some sense of how I could make progress. Lech Balinski was emerging from the shadows, Frankie Prince was turning himself from a Cardiff gangster into something more sinister, and there was the report from Cornock that I couldn’t avoid reading any longer. Trish complained that I had to switch off from work; a fresh mind was always better, she said. I heard her say something about work-life balance as I pulled into the drive of my parents’ home and killed the engine.

  ‘I must tell you about the arrangements for the party,’ my mother said as we sat at the table. My father rolled his eyes as I glanced over at him. ‘Uncle Gino has bought a new suit.’

  ‘John doesn’t want to hear about Gino’s clothes,’ my father said.

  ‘Of course he does,’ she replied. ‘It’s family.’

  And my mother continued, giving us the minutiae of the arrangements for the party.

  ‘Are you going to buy a new suit?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t…’

  ‘I’ll take him to buy a new suit,’ Trish said with a half-smile.

  My mother looked pleased. ‘It must be good quality. It’s good for you to listen to your mother once in a while,’ she said, turning to Trish. ‘Nothing cheap. And a new shirt too.’

  My father sat silently, nodding occasionally.

  I’d lost interest in the party by the time my mother had recited the details for the tenth time. I sat, San Pellegrino in hand, with my father who sipped a bottle of Peroni, while my mother insisted that Trish help her with the food. Trish sat down by my side as my mother placed a plate of antipasto on the table with a flourish.

  ‘They look lovely, Mrs Marco.’

  My father opened a bottle of Bardolino, sharing it with Trish. I’d become accustomed to eating on the move and grazing on takeaways, so taking my time over a meal was unusual. A niggle that I needed to be reading reports or reviewing evidence worked itself into my mind. My mother cleared the plates into the kitchen and returned with a dark-red casserole dish held between thick oven gloves.

  My mother spooned the stew onto plates. ‘It would be wonderful if Dean could be at the party,’ she said, too casually, before passing a plate over to Trish.

  ‘That would be good but Jackie wouldn’t let him,’ I said, wondering what my mother was up to.

  ‘Smells wonderful, Mrs Marco.’

  ‘One of my favourites,’ my mother said.

  ‘What is it?’ Trish asked.

  ‘Bollita.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘Beef and veal tongue boiled very slowly.’

  Suddenly, I felt a lump in my throat and I lost my appetite.

  After lunch I sat with my father in the sitting room half-listening to my mother talking to Trish in the kitchen. My father had something on his mind and it was only a matter of time before he would tell me. I had taken a couple of sips of my double espresso before he cleared his throat.

  ‘Gino wants to sell the property in Pontypridd’

  The building was the first premises the family had owned and there was too much sentiment attached to ever consider selling the building.

  ‘And do you want to?’

  ‘No. I’ve told him straight.’

  ‘Why does he want to sell? It’s bringing in good rent.’

  ‘From all accounts his business isn’t doing too well and he needs the money.’

  ‘Why doesn’t Jez take it over?’

  ‘Your cousin is bone idle, that’s why.’

  ‘The place is in your name – and Uncle Gino’s name.’

  ‘But there’s some complex trust provisions contained in Nonno Marco’s will that means you have to consent to the sale.’

  ‘And Uncle Gino’s in a fix.’

  ‘He’s tried everything. Being nice to me and then bullying me with suggestions that Nonno Marco would have been shocked with my behaviour.’

  I sat back in the chair and finished the espresso.

  ‘Gino’s bound to tackle you about it at the party.’

  I thought about my childhood when my father would take me to see the café and how my grandfather would make a fuss over me, make me weak coffee, and tell me how lucky I was to live in Wales. I could see why my father wouldn’t want to sell the café. It was part of him, part of what made us as a family.

  * * *

  ‘It was delicious,’ Trish said, for the fourth time during our journey back to Cardiff.

  I forced a smile and I thought about the reports I needed to read and the case review I needed to finish. And there was Top Gear on the television later, so I had to finish in good time.

  Back at the flat, Trish made coffee and we sat at the table with papers open in front of us. I adjusted the blinds, blocking out the rays from the early-evening sunshine. I started at the executive summary of the report which had a lot of management-speak about stakeholders and outcomes and objectives and I skipped through the jargon until I found the substance. The human trafficking into South Wales was becoming a political issue. A committee of assembly members was going to report directly to a minister, but I knew it wasn’t the sort of issue that would get them headlines in the press or votes in the next election. I could just see the politicians running a campaign on the evils of trafficking people around Europe, while paying minimum wage to girls from Poland to clean their apartments in the Bay.

  There were pages of details about the numbers involved. It was the sort of report that went from one desk to another, bouncing around until it ran out of steam and then quietly shelved because of operational priorities or resource implications.

  ‘They reckon there
’s four hundred and fifty girls trafficked into Wales every year,’ I said.

  Trish put down the coffee mug and looked up from her papers. ‘Where from?’

  ‘Eastern Europe mostly.’

  There was a section from the Vice Squad about the activities of pimps and brothels in Cardiff, but nothing about the trafficking of girls into the city. I knew that the Vice Squad was under-resourced and lacked the motivation to do anything properly. It wasn’t exactly the sort of career progression that most cops wanted. ‘And Amnesty says it’s modern-day slavery.’

  The coffee in my mug was cold. I felt hungry again.

  ‘It’s the sort of thing we don’t hear about,’ Trish said.

  ‘Nobody looks out for the women involved.’

  I read more of the Amnesty section.

  ‘Amnesty reckons families sell their daughters to the traffickers,’ I said.

  Trish put her biro down and looked up at me. ‘That’s awful. What sort of world is it…?’

  Tomorrow we’d make progress. Real progress – there had to be some forensics. There had to be something on Lech and Frankie.

  When Top Gear started I slumped into the sofa trying to insulate my mind from tongues and trafficking and reports from senior management. I watched Jeremy Clarkson walking around an Aston Martin parked next to a Porsche on the concourse of an airfield. Frankie probably liked Top Gear. He probably watched it on a massive screen. Tomorrow I would get a better picture of Lech. I needed to know who he was, where he came from. I wondered what sort of car he drove. Clarkson screamed around the track like a teenager, making grimaces to the camera. I felt hungry as the memory of the Bollita receded in my mind. I turned to Trish.

  ‘Any chance of something to eat?’

  * * *

  I woke from a dreamless sleep and reached over to the alarm clock. My hand sent the clock flying off the table and I heard it crash against the skirting board, dislodging the battery that rolled under the bed. But the noise kept ringing and I fumbled for the mobile telephone.

  Trish was making an odd grunting sound in her sleep.

  I pressed the receive button and stuck the handset to my ear. The voice from Area Control sounded wide-awake.