‘Morning John,’ Alvine said. ‘What kept you? I was half-expecting to see Dave Hobbs.’
I narrowed my eyes and pursed my lips. ‘All right Alvine?’
I took a step towards Paddy and looked down at the body.
After days in the water the skin looked as though it had been shredded and the eye sockets were shrunken. Traces of blood and skin clung to the mouth.
I said, ‘Has his tongue been cut out?’
Paddy pulled the mouth open with gloved hands. ‘Yep. Same as before.’
Boyd, standing by my side, coughed loudly then moved away and spewed his guts up over the concrete.
Paddy continued. ‘Only this one is ragged. Looks like he really put up a fight.’
‘How long has he been in the water?’
I looked at the face again and wondered if it was the face of Gerek. And I wondered if there’d be another Polish family to see. But the post mortem might tell us more and before Paddy left we’d agreed a time to see him in the mortuary.
Boyd stood a few feet away, dabbing a handkerchief to his lips and looking pale.
‘You’re not eating enough,’ I said. ‘Need to keep your strength up in a job like this.’
He nodded slowly and I thought he might be sick again.
* * *
The message from the police at Bristol airport had been clear and it only meant more hassle. Janek had left for Poland on a flight from the airport and the British Transport Police were looking for someone to blame.
‘An inspector from the BTP has been on the telephone,’ Woods said. ‘His head was so far up his backside he could see daylight.’
‘And the details?’ I asked, standing by the board and wondering why it had taken so long to find Janek.
‘He wanted to know why we hadn’t told them about the murders and the tongues.’
‘He should check their emails,’ I said.
‘They’re all knob-heads,’ Lawson added.
Woods nodded vigorously with Lawson’s assessment of the BTP.
‘When did he leave?’ I said.
‘Day after the break-in at Cardiff Central, sir,’ Lawson said.
‘So they moved him out once they thought he was at risk.’
‘And we’ll never get an international warrant for a break-in at a railway station where the only evidence we have is a grainy CCTV film,’ Boyd said.
I kicked the leg of the chair in front of me, feeling that I should be kicking something more important, like Lech Balinski’s bollocks. I thought about how we could get Janek to tell us what he knew, without the risk of his tongue being cut out, but it was as likely as the man on the moon texting me an invitation for tea.
But I did think of a man who might help. I walked over to my desk and dug out the telephone number of the colonel. After a couple of rings the switchboard in the embassy rang and the voice told me to wait before there was series of clicks and the colonel answered.
‘There’s been another murder.’
‘This is bad.’
‘I need your help,’ I started, hoping a passive diplomatic tone might work. ‘We know that Janek Symanski is in Warsaw. We need to speak to him urgently. And have the Warsaw police tracked the other two men we’re looking for?’
He paused. ‘The names again?’
‘Pietrek Nowak and Gerek Kelka. Colonel. This is important.’ It was all I could do not to shout down the telephone.
‘I refer to police in Warsaw.’
The line went dead. Boyd stood in the door holding sheaves of paperwork in his hand.
‘Lists from the hotels, boss.’
‘The staff for each?’
He nodded.
‘And?’
‘There are at least ten common names. Leon, Michal, Gerek and seven girls, all with Polish-sounding names.’
I shouted through the open door for Woods and Lawson.
* * *
Paddy hummed a Wagner violin concerto as he prepared, or so he told me. For all I knew it could have been Mozart. The body on the slab was turning a nasty shade of dark green, the smell was fishy and behind me Boyd coughed loudly into a handkerchief. It had been impossible to be certain if the body on the slab was the man in Gerek’s passport photograph.
‘The colour suggests that the body has been in the water for longer than a week.’
‘Can you be more precise than that?’
Paddy bobbed his head from side to side. ‘Maybe. Forensic results might be able to tell us. You’ve got to remember that water can delay deterioration of the body because of the absence of air but the bloating is caused by the build-up of gases.’
He prodded the eye sockets and the lips that had disappeared, and then continued. ‘The fish go after the soft tissue, the eyes and the lips. But then, do you see this waxy substance on the skin? It’s called adipocere or mortuary wax. It prevents the body deteriorating too quickly.’
‘Thanks for the lecture, Paddy. Any ID?’
Paddy moved to one side and started to examine the pile of clothes. He discarded a light-blue shirt quickly but a dark fleece tore easily as he pulled at the material, before starting an investigation of the trousers. The jeans were heavy but eventually he emptied various coins and sodden supermarket till receipts into a receptacle on the table. From a rear pocket he drew out a small plastic credit card.
‘Is this what you’re looking for?’
Chapter 18
It took me a couple of hours to finish my interview with Jason Brown, who denied any involvement in the burglaries while admitting stealing a handbag from a kitchen table. I bailed him and completed a dozen different forms.
By the time I arrived back in my office the temperature was still cold, despite the efforts of the ancient radiator that gurgled occasionally. I turned the credit card with Gerek’s name embossed on it through my fingers and found myself hoping that family liaison would deal with his relatives. Boyd came into my room, balancing a pile of paperwork on his lap as he sat down. He had spent hours working through the records from Companies House and it looked like he was enjoying the whole experience. He’d been making comments about how similar it had been to studying for his final examinations at university. I couldn’t imagine what that might be like, but if it involved wading through paperwork then I’d been fortunate to have missed the experience. Frankie Prince’s activities created a lot of paperwork. At least that’s what Boyd said and he had a degree, so he’d know.
‘I’ve counted twenty companies where Frankie Prince is a director,’ Boyd said. ‘They all seemed to be linked together. One of the companies is Ember Vale Charitable Foundation. And you’ll never guess who is one of the directors.’
‘OK, Boyd. I give up.’
‘Janet Helm,’ he said, emphasising each word.
I could see the face of one of the leading opposition politicians at the National Assembly looking straight into the camera. A regular on the news broadcasts, she’d become accomplished at the Welsh way of tribal politics, always persuasive, comforting even.
‘So why is Janet Helm involved with Frankie Prince?’ I said out loud, not expecting an answer.
‘Ember Vale was established five years ago and it takes disadvantaged children for holidays around the UK.’ Boyd wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to share all the details. ‘Helm is the patron and one of the directors. At the time it was established Frankie got a lot of publicity. I’ve been trawling back through all the newspapers and he gets press coverage at least once a month.’
It came as no surprise that Frankie Prince would be arse-licking his way into the establishment. I wondered if Janet Helm had any inclination that the Ember Vale foundation was funded by prostitution.
‘Frankie Prince has been able to get loads of important people to support the foundation,’ Boyd added.
‘He’s buying insurance.’
‘He’s got lots of important friends. But you haven’t seen the best yet.’
‘Saved the best till last?’
&
nbsp; ‘Something like that.’
‘Okay.’
‘Frankie Prince owns a company called FPL Properties. And guess what it does?’
‘A wild guess says it buys and sells properties.’
‘And, boss, more importantly, lets them out.’ Boyd sat back and beamed. ‘FPL Properties owns 14 Howick Street.’
‘Really. And where does that take us?’
‘It’s another connection to the murders.’
‘Owning the house?’ I could sense Boyd was disappointed with my reaction.
‘Well. It’s all part of the big picture.’
‘Which is?’
Boyd hesitated; the smile had gone, replaced by the matter-of-fact look that normally sets in when we’re going round in circles.
I heard the sound of Hobbs in the Incident Room and I clenched my teeth. He’d recently taken to whistling as he walked through Queen Street and it was annoying me more than I realised. I wondered what he wanted and then his head appeared in my doorway.
‘How are things going?’
Nothing was as simple or straightforward as Dave Hobbs asking after my welfare.
‘Making good progress with the Polish cases? What’s the latest?’
His eyes had that frosted look I’d seen in interviews when I was being lied to. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion and it struck me then that if Hobbs ever made Chief Inspector my future in CID was going to be limited. He was probably the sort of officer that would make Chief Super dead quick. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect.
The telephone on the desk rang before I could reply.
Hobbs’s eyes still looked glacial as he left my room, but he managed a smirk as he turned his back and left.
‘Marco,’ I said.
‘That Polish guy is back,’ said the voice from the front desk.
* * *
Kamil was, as always, chewing what nails he had left on his right hand. He clutched his right wrist with his left hand, as though the exertion of eating his nails needed support for the work his teeth were doing.
‘Gerek is dead,’ he said.
‘What do you know about him?’
‘I knew him. Not too well.’
‘Was he a friend of Michal?’
He blinked a couple of times. ‘Michal had lot of friends. Have you found what the key opens?’
I hadn’t finished talking about Gerek. ‘When did you see Gerek last?’
‘I don’t know. Can’t remember. Long time.’
‘Where did you see him? Was it with Michal?’
More blinking and chewing of nails. I continued.
‘Was it with Leon?’
‘Bad things are happening. It is not safe for Polish people. Maybe I can help with keys.’
Boyd cleared his throat, and said, ‘Were you friends with Gerek?’
Kamil shook his head. Boyd continued. ‘What about Pietrek? Did you know him? Is he from Warsaw too?’
‘I never like Pietrek. He was friend of Gerek only.’
‘And Leon?’ I said.
‘Only Michal.’
Kamil started on the nails of his left hand.
‘Have you been in contact with Michal’s family?’
‘No.’ He sounded offended. ‘His father…’
‘So what are your friends saying about the deaths?’
‘Many people are frightened and I am scared because of Michal and me. I need to find what bad people are looking for. They must be stopped and I am worried that others killed. Or that I am next. It really bad.’
‘What do you think they are looking for?’
Kamil squirmed in his chair, and then tilted his head as he gnawed at a stubborn piece of nail.
‘I not know.’
I looked at Kamil, wishing I did.
* * *
Woods had an annoying habit of eating with his mouth open and drinking at the same time. He bit off a chunk of banana and then took a mouthful of tea. He swallowed hard and then opened his mouth.
‘Everyone is spooked,’ Woods said.
The tea-infused banana chunks looked disgusting, so I glanced over at Lawson, but Woods continued.
‘The priest looks like he’s seen a ghost. He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.’
Lawson pitched in. ‘And Social Services want to know whether there’s anything they need to do.’
‘What?’
‘Watching their backs, I’d say, boss. You know. Deniability,’ Lawson added.
‘Deniability? That’s just in the spy movies,’ Boyd said. ‘It doesn’t happen that way in real life.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Lawson said, sitting back in his chair and resting his hands on his stomach. ‘When the shit hits the fan they can say, “We offered to help but the WPS declined.” Makes them look good.’
Woods had finished the banana. ‘Whatever. The Polish community doesn’t know what’s been happening. The buses back to Poland have been booked solid for the next two weeks.’
‘Has anyone got anything substantive?’ I said, loud enough to get the attention of the other three.
Woods had the banana in hand, but I gave him a discouraging look and he hesitated.
Boyd was the first to say anything. ‘We’re still waiting for the forensic results.’
I wasn’t hopeful. Seawater can ruin crime scenes.
‘We’ll go to see Gerek’s flat this afternoon. In the meantime Phil and Joe, you go and find Pietrek. He was Gerek’s mate so he should tell us something about his friend.’
Chapter 19
A sudden shower of rain drenched the city’s streets and overhead black clouds hung in a sullen mass. I darted into a shop doorway, watching as shoppers opened umbrellas and pulled collars up against the rain. The temperature had dropped too.
Arrangements had been finalised by my mother, behind my back, for Dean to be at the party in two weeks’ time but Jackie had insisted we meet for lunch beforehand. Our telephone conversation had been short, tetchy and she’d said I needed to rebuild my relationship with Dean. As I stood watching the rain, all I could think of was Dagmara and then Michal and Leon and the thousands of Polish people who had come to Wales chasing the rainbow.
I should have been thinking about Uncle Gino’s party. My mother had recounted the finer points of the arrangements over the telephone the night before, even though there was plenty of time until the family gathering. Who was picking up who, and from where. What I had to do and who I had to smile at and acknowledge. People I hadn’t seen for months, years even, and probably wouldn’t see again for a long time. Trish had been talking to my mother and my mother had been talking to Jackie. My father hadn’t been talking to anyone, least of all his own brother. I wasn’t asked for my opinion. I was told what was expected of me in tones that implied agreement would be good for me.
The rain stopped and plastic bags bumped against my legs as shoppers left the store, escaping from their temporary shelter. I stepped onto the pavement, avoiding pedestrians dodging around newly formed puddles. Passing the shop in the arcade where I’d bought my new suit, two shirts – Trish had insisted – and a new tie, the shop assistant, who’d been so keen to take my money, stared through me as he stood by the door.
I jogged over The Hayes, nodding a brief acknowledgment to the man behind the counter of the café. It was a good place for a milky sweet tea, the sort that reminded me of my childhood and where you could sit and nobody would pay you the slightest attention. It was like being invisible in the middle of the city.
By the time I’d reached High Street a light drizzle was falling and I was glad to reach the café Jackie had chosen for lunch. For once I was early and I found a table and flicked through the menu jammed into a metal stand.
It wasn’t somewhere where Frankie Prince would visit and I caught myself thinking how he’d get on in prison. A bang-up jail would suit him fine, I concluded. Twenty hours a day in the same cell with a visit once a week to the library and one visiting order a month, until he’d earned pri
vileges. His wife would get tired of course and after a couple of years of visiting once a fortnight, it would be once a month and then the letters would stop. And there’d be nothing Frankie could do about it. At the moment it felt that there was nothing I could do about it. We had no evidence to talk about and nothing to connect Frankie to the deaths.
‘John. Sorry I’m late,’ Jackie said, breaking my thought pattern.
She sat down and gave a nervous smile. Her blond hair was pulled back into a severe knot behind her head; her eyes were still a deep colour that made the iris indistinguishable from the pupil. Her scent ignited memories long forgotten, of a shared passion, of kissing her and feeling her skin next to mine.
‘You keeping all right?’ she began.
‘Fine.’
‘And Trish?’
‘Good, too. How’s Dean?’
She puckered her lips and hardened her eyes. ‘How long has it been, John?’
I knew what she meant and last night I’d been trying to recall when I saw Dean last.
‘I know…’
‘Look, I’m only doing this for your mother,’ she said firmly.
‘It was last Christmas. When I couldn’t start the car.’
She picked up the menu card and held open the stiff plastic as she scanned the contents.
‘And since then, John?’
‘I did remember his birthday,’ I said, knowing that the year before I’d forgotten.
‘But no calls. No visits.’
‘It’s been busy at work.’
She gave me a look that said it was an old excuse that wouldn’t work any longer. A waitress arrived at the table and stood, without saying anything. She gave me a surly glance as I looked up. We ordered and then Jackie moved the conversation back to Dean until I felt like a stranger with my own son. I wondered if Michal and Leon had become strangers to their families. But Dean was seven and he lived in Basingstoke.
‘I think you should get to know Dean before the party,’ she said, as if I was choosing a pet dog. ‘He… you… need to rebuild your relationship. I’ve spoken to Rosa and we both think—’
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