by Rachel Lynch
Kelly knocked and rang the bell at the same time for good measure. It took a few goes, but eventually a figure came towards the door. The man who filled the doorway wore scruffy jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was dishevelled and he had about a week’s growth of stubble on his face. He looked to be in his mid-fifties. Typical lorry driver, Kelly thought. He was the right age, build and height for the description they’d managed to get from Jovana, but then so were thousands of other lorry drivers in England. He scratched his chin and she got a whiff of unwashed body.
‘Good morning, sir. We’d like to speak to Mr Jack Croft, please.’
The man looked wary. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Porter and this is Detective Constable Hide. We’d like to ask him some questions. Is he in?’
‘I’m in. I’m Jack Croft,’ he said. His demeanour was shifty.
‘May we come in?’
‘Sure,’ said Croft and moved backwards. It was clear to Kelly that he was trying to appear helpful. She’d learnt long ago that were two types of interviewees: those who simply told the police their story, and those who tried to convince them of their story. The latter were always liars.
The hall was tiny, but they shuffled along and into the front room and Hide closed the door.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Croft asked.
‘No thank you, we’re fine. May we sit down?’ said Kelly. She really didn’t want to sit down on the grubby sofa, though she’d seen much worse. She certainly didn’t want to drink from one of his cups.
‘So you work for Crawley Haulage, yes?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Croft coughed.
‘And I see from your schedule that on the sixteenth of September, you returned from a long trip to Zagreb, via Belgium. Can you remember the journey in question?’
Croft scratched his chin again, stalling for time. The detectives waited.
‘What day of the week was it?’ he asked.
‘It was a Sunday,’ Kelly replied.
‘I’ve done a lot of trips recently. I don’t remember that particular night.’
‘Well, I’ve got your log from Crawley Haulage, Mr Croft. So either you did it or someone did it for you in your lorry. Which is it to be?’
‘It must have been me,’ he said, shifting butt cheeks on the sofa. The stench of body odour was becoming unbearable.
‘Have you ever brought people into the country illegally, Mr Croft?’
‘No!’ He was indignant but too hasty.
‘And you’ve never accepted cash to do so?’
‘No! Wait a minute, what’s going on here?’
‘It’s simply an investigation. I’ll be asking all your colleagues exactly the same questions,’ Kelly said calmly. ‘You must have seen the news, Mr Croft. Someone helped that woman into the country. She didn’t speak English and she was heavily pregnant. But it’s her husband we’re most concerned for. Do you recognise either of these people?’ She handed him the photographs of Jovana and Nedzad Galic.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thank you, we’ll call back if we need anything else. Oh, one more thing, Mr Croft. Are you aware of any of your colleagues bringing illegal immigrants into Britain via their regular routes for cash?’
‘No.’
‘None at all?’
‘No.’
‘Thank you.’ They got up and left. Jack Croft looked pale and clammy as he closed the door.
‘What do you think, guv?’ Hide asked her boss.
‘He’s lying. Do we know when his next trip is?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘I know someone in the Home Office who does border control. I’ll send her an email with his details. It’ll speed things up. They can’t physically check every lorry coming into Britain; he might have slipped through dozens of times. He’s playing with fire. Something has to lead to the person calling the shots. Let’s hope it’s this.’
Their next port of call was the Troutbeck Guest House, and they weren’t leaving until Mrs Joliffe showed up. They’d had enough excuses. As Hide drove them towards Ambleside, Kelly’s phone rang.
‘DC Phillips, good morning.’ She put him on speaker.
‘Guv, I spoke to a DS at Merseyside yesterday about what Marko Popovic might have been up to during his time there. He was a suspect in plenty of cases involving stolen goods, drugs, possession of firearms, and GBH/ABH, but whenever they got close, either witnesses would retract their statements or the police lacked hard evidence to convince the CPS. For whatever reason, he was never charged with anything, although he was arrested a few times and his DNA is on the system. It was flagged up to us that he was headed our way, and it turns out we even had him followed, but funding cuts stopped all that and he doesn’t appear again. He has legitimate cover; he was given asylum in 1997. And get this, he draws disability pension for anxiety.’
‘Christ, you are joking?’ Kelly couldn’t believe it. ‘Wait a minute, is it paid electronically?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Bingo! Find me the details. Did you get anything from Elite Escapes?’
‘Yes. Apparently Colin Day or his wife book the same property up to four times per year. They’re good clients: the place is always left clean. They drink a lot of booze. When I asked about other clients, she was unwilling but I leant on her. Turns out Harry Chase and Barry Crawley have booked through them – and get this, guv, they’ve booked together.’
The small hairs on Kelly’s arms stood up. Harry Chase.
‘Thanks, Will, good job. I want you and DS Umshaw to drop everything else and work on this link. We need to see if the three of them were linked in other ways: companies, financial deals.’
As she was speaking, Kelly was glancing through her notes.
‘Fuck.’
‘Sorry, guv?’
‘HCCD Art Handling. Harry Chase/Colin Day. Bingo. Look into it.’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Me and Emma are in Ambleside all day. If I don’t get to see Mrs Joliffe today, I’m putting a warrant out for her arrest for wasting police time and evading an investigation. Just to confirm, the phone number found amongst Anushka’s belongings is Joliffe’s?’
‘Yes, guv.’
Hide put her foot down, sensing her boss’s urgency. Soon they were passing the Kirkstone Inn and cutting across to Ambleside.
To Kelly’s surprise, Teresa Joliffe was waiting for them at the guest house. She took stock of the woman, and decided she was the kind of smooth operator who would never miss calls by accident. She also struck her as someone who didn’t quite fit in here. She didn’t look like a hotel manager; more of a nightclub owner, all black garb and dripping in diamonds. Her make-up was overdone for daytime, and she reeked of perfume.
‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you for several days, Mrs Joliffe. We’ve got a few questions that we’d like to ask, and it could take some time. Do you have any other engagements, or may we proceed?’
‘Please. I’m free for a good hour. I oversee other hotels, which is why I haven’t been here when you’ve called before. I do apologise.’ Her voice was well trained and controlled, as if she were used to public speaking. They all remained standing.
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’ Kelly said. ‘Which other hotels? All owned by Colin Day?’ Hide took notes.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t know about that.’
‘Who pays you?’
‘I get paid by a company called Forward Holdings Ltd.’
Hide wrote it down. They hadn’t come across that one.
‘What was your relationship to Colin Day?’
‘I never met him.’
‘He paid your wages: Forward Holdings was his company.’ It was a stab in the dark. Hide held back a smirk.
Teresa Joliffe shrugged. ‘The Queen pays yours, but I don’t suppose you’ve met her, have you?’
The two women locked gazes and Hide bristled.
‘
What is your relationship to Anushka Ivanov – your ex-employee?’
‘Just that. I sacked her because she was never on time.’
‘Were you aware that she was in the country illegally?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where she went after you dismissed her?’
‘No.’
‘Why would she have your personal mobile number?’
‘I probably gave it to her on one occasion I wanted her to actually give me notice when she never bothered to turn up. She obviously kept it.’
‘Do you know this man?’ Kelly showed her a picture of Darren Beckett.
‘No.’
‘This one?’ A photo of Harry Chase taken hastily off the internet.
‘No.’
‘These women?’ Photos of stills taken from Colin Day’s USB sticks.
‘No.’
‘Is money ever handed over for sex on these premises, Teresa?’
‘No, don’t be absurd.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know why I asked? Surely you would want to know that your employer is legitimate.’
‘I don’t need confirmation. I’d never make that mistake.’
‘But you said you’d never met him, so actually you know nothing about your employer? Which is it?’
Joliffe remained stony.
‘This man.’ Kelly held a photo of Barry Crawley, received from Phillips on their way over here.
‘No.’
‘Who’s Marko?’
Teresa Joliffe’s right eye quivered and Kelly saw it.
‘I don’t know anyone called Marko.’
‘Would you swear that on oath?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are aware that this interview will be recorded and any change in statement could go against you in the future?’
‘Are you threatening me? You’ve come into my hotel, made accusations, and now you imply that I’m lying. This interview is over. I’ve got nothing more to say unless it’s in front of a lawyer.’
‘Your hotel?’
‘It’s… a figure of speech.’
‘It sure is. What accountancy firm does the hotel use, Mrs Joliffe?’
‘Off the top of my head I can’t remember. I don’t get involved in the finances.’
‘But you’re the manager.’
‘Well, I collate the figures but then some accountant turns up – a different one every year – and I hand them over. It’s always been like that.’
‘I don’t suppose it’s Chase and Chase in Workington, is it?’
‘Could be.’
‘Have you ever heard of a company called Tomb Day?’
‘No.’ The answer was too quick. ‘Oh, wait a moment. How is it spelled?’
Kelly thought the woman might be stalling for time. She asked for Hide’s pad and wrote the name down on a piece of paper.
‘That’s funny,’ Teresa said.
‘What?’
‘Colin Day has a son called Tom. I was checking out my new employer years ago- yes I did do some background- and I read an article on Mr Day. I think the son is in prison. I don’t know what the B is for, though.’
Kelly was floored. Tom B. Day. Could it be? She was angry with herself that they hadn’t known, but also puzzled why Teresa Joliffe would tell her, unless she had no role in this whatsoever and genuinely didn’t know any of Colin Day’s business.
‘We’d like to look through the hotel accounts, please.’
‘I’m afraid there aren’t any held here. They all go to the accountant.’
‘It’s not year-end and you’re telling me that you have no records on the premises?’
‘Are we done?’
‘I think you should be more careful with the type of people you employ. We’re looking into all of Mr Day’s affairs very carefully indeed. We’ll see ourselves out.’
* * *
Teresa followed them to the door and waited until they’d left. Then she swore under her breath and went to her office to call Marko. She hadn’t wanted to come back here. He’d forced her. He wanted to know how much the police knew. She was about to tell him that they knew virtually everything. She was encouraged by one thing at least. She had made up Forward Holdings, plucked it out of thin air, and the detective had pretended that she had heard of it; that it was owned by Colin Day. So they didn’t know everything. Yet.
It was time for her to move on; she’d done it before. And she wanted Tom Day out of her life for good. She really should be spending the afternoon closing the Troutbeck operation down, but that was no longer her priority. By the time the detective had worked everything out, Teresa Joliffe would be long gone.
Chapter 40
George waited for Gabriela in the foyer. He’d slipped a note under her door at four p.m., hoping she might be awake. He’d tried to speak to Mrs Joliffe several times about his concerns, but she’d either been too busy or too irate to discuss anything. She’d wafted him away angrily and George concluded that he should never have bothered making an effort to do her a favour; he was only trying to keep her business safe. She’d left in worsening mood and he was glad to see the back of her.
When Gabriela finally appeared at reception, he handed her the fax from the detective.
‘That’s him,’ he said.
‘I know.’ They turned their backs to the reception area, and pretended to be busy when a guest or member of staff walked past. Car horns tooted outside on the busy street, and the phone rang constantly. They spoke in hushed voices.
‘How do you know? You never saw him.’ George was puzzled. He rearranged papers on the reception desk.
‘He came here last night, but a guest interrupted him and he left.’ Gabriela fiddled with a vase of flowers.
‘Why didn’t you say? Gabriela, this is serious. I think you need to speak to the policewoman. I already have. I told her it’s definitely him.’
She looked scared.
‘What are you frightened of, Gabriela? He’s wanted by the police and he’s harassing you.’
‘Because Mrs Joliffe has my passport and I don’t have a work permit. Can I make myself any clearer?’ she whispered.
George folded his arms and stroked his chin. He felt for the girl, she was a good kid. It wasn’t true what people said about immigrants; he’d never met anyone so hard-working. But he could tell she was scared.
‘Do you think Mrs Joliffe is involved?’ he asked.
‘In what way?’
‘Well, they seemed keen to talk to her, and she was in a foul mood this afternoon – has been all week.’
‘You know the man who died in the Thwaite Hotel?’
‘The one you said owns this place?’
‘Yes. Mrs Joliffe must have known him. I overheard some of the girls whispering about him. They said Nush bragged about gifts she’d been given by him, really expensive ones.’
‘Gifts?’
‘In return for things.’ Gabriela’s cheeks flushed and George slowly caught on. He felt embarrassed for her, and he coughed.
‘Oh. Do you believe it?’ he asked.
‘That was the morning she left. She threw up all over that Japanese couple, then said she was going. That’s when she said to tell Roza one word: Darren.’
George smiled. ‘You are quite the detective, Gabriela; that policewoman would like you. You have no choice but to tell her all of this. I’m serious. Look, we’re a civilised country, you won’t get into any trouble. It’s the right thing to do.’
Gabriela seemed to think about his words. Eventually she came to a decision.
‘I’ll do it, George. I’ll talk to her.’
‘Good, you make sure you do. Her number is on the card I gave you.’
‘I know, I have it.’
* * *
Back in her room, Gabriela spent the rest of the afternoon fretting about how to start a conversation with a policewoman in a country that wasn’t hers. She went back and forth over possible starters, and each time came up blank. Her stomach churned
as she imagined the likely outcomes.
Her shift started without incident, and every now and again, she’d stare at the card. Each time, she would talk herself out of it. The evening was quiet and she found herself without anything to do: she’d tidied the office, shuffled papers, even sketched Anushka and Roza from memory. Bored, she left the reception desk and went to Mrs Joliffe’s office, round the back of the foyer. She tried the handle but it was locked, just as she’d expected it to be. She peered through the window in the door, but saw nothing of consequence. Maybe she could take her drawings to the police, she thought. A wire crossing the floor caught on her shoe and she tripped, ending up sprawled on the floor. She stayed there for a second and shook her head at how jittery she’d become since Darren Beckett had tried to get in to her old room. He looked like trouble, and Gabriela shivered at the thought of what might have happened to Anushka and Roza.
She got up and straightened her clothes, and went back towards the reception office to get a pencil sharpener. She fiddled with the pencils in her pocket and decided that she wanted to draw a portrait that was hung on a wall in the entrance. It was a scene of a lake with mountains behind it and it would probably take a while to complete, thus taking her mind off Darren Beckett. She walked to the front door, and peered through the glass and into the dark night; no-one was around. As she approached the reception office, she heard a thump and it made her jump. The noise came from upstairs, and it sounded as though somebody had dropped something and she stared at the ceiling. There was only quiet. She took a deep breath and stepped through the door.
The light had been switched off and Gabriela couldn’t remember doing it. Before she could back track in her mind, a hand was clamped over her mouth and a man’s voice whispered roughly in her ear. ‘Don’t make a sound and I won’t hurt you, bitch.’
He let her go and she swung round. It was him. Darren. He held up a knife.
‘I’m not gonna hurt you,’ he said. ‘I know you shared Nush’s room; she told me.’
