Death and Deception

by B. A. Steadman

  Watching the light change to purple dusk, he wondered if he should just get on the phone anyway and call a couple of old friends. What had he got to lose except a bit of face? He let his eyes wander to the river basin to his left. The swans that haunt the river harassing visitors for food were quiet, having settled onto their nests further up river. Sounds of laughter reached across the water from the pub.

  On the bench under the soft lamplight, Dan understood that he had been living in a bubble of grief for the last two months, pretending to be a human being but not connecting with anyone, not making a commitment to anything. Here on the side of the river, in the kindly evening gloom, he could hear the sounds of birds settling, and bats swooping. He could also smell the tantalising garlic from The Veneziana’s kitchen behind him. It was like watching his first 3D movie – everything seemed heightened. Maybe, after all, he was ready to move on and just needed to give himself permission do it.

  He drank his beer feeling an edginess. He was full of a nervous energy that had nowhere to go except out through the bottom of his tapping foot. He felt the urgency of the case and was frustrated at having so little information yet to go on. How could the others go home to their families and forget all about it until the next day?

  He sighed and swallowed the last of his beer. No point fretting about things you can’t change, as his mum would say. Food would settle him down. His mum would say that, too.

  Dan realised he was hungry. Really hungry. The smell of the food was overwhelming his taste buds, and he could feel saliva awakening his mouth. He needed a plate of pasta Puttanesca. Now.

  As he turned to enter the restaurant he noticed someone trying to attract his attention from the water, waving at him with an oar. It took him a few moments to realise that it was Chas Lloyd, balancing in the front of a canoe and looking fetching in Lycra shorts and a performance tee shirt. Dan smiled and walked towards the water’s edge. The team was getting out of the boat on the other side of the river.

  ‘Wait there,’ she shouted, ‘I’ll come over for a beer!’ The evening might not be entirely lost, he thought.

  Ian Gould, Bill and Ben peeled out of the Barn Owl at 7.30pm. The early-doors crowd had thinned and the evening throng was beginning to fill up the corner tables and order from the menu. Ian waved the pair an extravagant farewell and wove his way towards his car. Christ, three pints and he was wobbling like a virgin ice skater.

  Ian hated the way pubs had changed. They were once proper men’s places where you stood at the bar or perched on uncomfortable wooden stools and drank only beer, with a whisky chaser if it was pay day. Dark- brown stained places where you could smoke and eat pork scratchings and have a laugh about football and the stupidity of politicians before going home late to a congealed supper and an angry missus. He sighed. Simpler times.

  He knew he’d been a pillock when he sorted out the holiday roster, but his mistake had led to the Flowerpot Men coming over to Team 2 for the duration of the investigation, so it wasn’t all bad. They were enjoying taking the piss out of young Hellier. Gently, though. Oliver wouldn’t be happy if they went too far. Dan was the boss after all, ridiculous though that seemed. Policemen really were getting younger. He chuckled to himself as he patted each pocket. ‘I’m becoming a right old sweat,’ he told his elusive car keys.

  Julie had been cool with him in front of Hellier. She’d been right, of course. Ian didn’t want him putting two and two together and sensing any history that there might have been, even if their fling had been over for years. She still looked good though, and thinking about her still raised a bit of interest in the trouser area.

  He shrugged off his jacket and threw it onto the seat, unimpressed with the sweaty aroma escaping his armpits. He squeezed behind the wheel and made his cautious way through the back streets to the small house overlooking the canal where he and Marilyn had lived for over thirty years. These days, it was a pleasure to go home. Laura was grown and expecting her first kid. He’d be a granddad in a couple of months. He laughed. Who’d have thought?

  He was going to sit down with Marilyn and talk about retirement and what they were going to do with all this free time they would have. He’d put off thinking about it for long enough. Perhaps on Saturday they could get a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of red and he could broach the subject. He had a secret dread that she might suggest ball-room dancing, but other than that, he was open to offers.

  Chapter 9

  Date: Tuesday 25th April Time: 00:14 Jed Abrams, Illusion Studio

  Jed Abrams rubbed his eyes, pressing his fingers into the sockets until he saw stars. The copying machines were working flat out, but he still had another hundred to complete before the bloody Latvian mafia arrived in the morning. And, he’d got a new film to shoot that he didn’t want to do, what with the Police sniffing around about Carly. He didn’t dare cancel it though, He was far more scared of Irina Akis than of anybody in the British Police force.

  But Jed could feel the panic rising in his chest. That Inspector already thought the murder had something to do with him, and he didn’t know what to do about that. What if he came back with a search warrant? No, it mustn’t happen. He’d have to speak to Irina and get the stuff moved somewhere else until it all died down.

  He reached for the vodka bottle and was, as usual, surprised to find it empty. Nowadays, he didn’t feel better when he drank. In fact, the best he could hope for was that he passed out more often, sometimes losing whole days.

  But, his drinking was affecting the business and he knew he had to stop. Good job Chas was reliable and the punters liked her. If he could just make it into the major leagues with the films, he could give all this up and go and live somewhere warm.

  His mobile rang. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he watched the phone ringing and vibrating on the desk. He knew there was no way out. Once you were in with these people, you stayed in until they didn’t need you anymore. And then, if you had been a loyal servant, they would reward you with more money than you could imagine. If you hadn’t… Jed had been very loyal, but he was under no illusion that they would kill him in a second rather than jeopardise their operation.

  He spoke to Grigor about the delivery, and then to Irina about the new film. Irina was unimpressed when he told her about the Police. There was no way they could change the date or the time, they had actors booked. Didn’t Jed realise that they were on deadlines too? She said she would sort something out when they arrived.

  By the time the call ended, Jed thought he had convinced them that he didn’t have anything to do with Carly’s death. But, he wouldn’t relax until they were gone again with the North Sea between them. There was something so chilling about Irina, like she had a piece missing when they handed out emotions. Abrams had only tried his charm on her once. It was her laugh that had really shrivelled him, that and the stamping on his foot with her stiletto.

  The three Latvians would get off the container ship in the early hours of the following morning and drive the empty van over from Harwich. Jed estimated four or five hours driving time, so they’d be here around nine o’clock. He swapped the DVDs over and made his way to the bed in the corner. He had to do another few hours at the Studio so he may as well get some sleep while he could.

  Chapter 10

  Date: Monday 24th April Time: 04:54 Riga, Latvia

  Even within the safe harbour of Riga, yellow-frothed waves nipped and harried the sides of the huge vessel. The grey of sea and sky melded on the horizon into a silver line. The ship would sail before daybreak. The ‘Kasparov’ made the thirty-six hour trip from the Latvian port to Harwich on the east coast of England twice a week, bringing timber and metal to the factories of Britain. Crane drivers, remote in their eyries, shifted containers as a child moves Lego, with slick ease.

  There was space aboard the ‘Kasparov’, occasionally, for fee-paying passengers who wished to avoid any awkwardness that might arise from passing through customs or passport control. The
Captain had a comfortable arrangement with the Akis family that had already boosted his pension far beyond his needs.

  After hiding the black Mercedes van inside an empty container, Grigor Pelakais and Filip Sarkov ushered their employer on board and led her to her usual cabin. She threw her bag on the bed and closed the door in Grigor’s face as she squeezed her phone from her jeans pocket. Grigor turned to Filip, his friend and Irina’s bodyguard, and raised his eyebrows. Filip shrugged and turned in the narrow space, heading down to the stern. They preferred to berth with the crew.

  Later, pausing outside the cracked metal door, Grigor balanced a tray carrying a pot of Earl Grey tea and listened until Irina Akis had finished her call. He didn’t know what language she was speaking, but he knew that when she spoke to the person on the other end of the phone she laughed, her voice was warm and she was slow to say goodbye.

  Grigor knocked and entered, placing the tray on the bedside table. He looked down at her, waiting to see if she wanted anything else. Eyes cool, expression blank, she thanked him for the tea and dismissed him with a brief nod of the head. To Grigor, she seemed to be able to play two different people as if born to it. One aspect of her was the cool, hard, boss he had to obey in everything she asked or suffer appalling consequences, and the other was the more human personality that she saved for this foreigner on the phone. Grigor nodded back to her and closed the door quietly behind him as he left.

  He made his way back to the crew’s quarters, where he and Filip would play a few games of cards with the men before attempting to sleep. The sea could be rough this time of year, it was unlikely she would send for him tonight. He expected her to call ahead as soon as they landed to make sure everything was in place for the following day. Superstitious, he touched the wooden rail that ran the length of the corridor. He hummed a children’s lullaby to block the distressing images that ambushed his brain every time they made the journey over to England.

  Chapter 11

  Date: Tuesday 25th April, Time: 03:47 The North Sea

  The second morning of the crossing from Riga to Harwich was cool and clear. The ship had been weighty enough, the night before, to slice through the waves rather than have to battle over them and they had all managed to sleep for a few hours before they docked. Irina sat on her bed with her feet in Grigor’s lap. She loved to have her feet massaged, and Grigor was happy to do it if it delayed her descent into nastiness for the day.

  The call to Abrams had upset her earlier. The drunken English fool had got himself involved in the death of a young girl. How stupid was he? They had just spent an hour working out their escape strategy if things turned bad.

  To Grigor, she seemed different this trip. It was the same dirty business as usual but he could sense her altered mood, Suppressed excitement was the closest he could get. It worried him a great deal. What had happened to make her so different, and how would it affect himself and Filip?

  Grigor ran his thumb down her instep and made tiny circular movements on the pad of flesh under each toe, stroking and kneading until he heard the small sigh of satisfaction and knew that he had done well. She patted his head, like she might a dog, and Grigor slipped a sock back over each foot.

  In their cabin, Filip waited, packing toiletries into his bag.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘What can I say? She wanted a foot massage. I have no bruises, bite marks or burns. My self-respect, however, is in the gutter.’

  Filip smiled, they had had the same conversation many times. Filip was too big and too ugly to interest Irina, and for that Grigor was always grateful.

  ‘She’s been talking a lot to someone in a foreign language. I think it might be Swedish. Has she said anything to you about it?’

  Filip shook his head. Grigor knew Irina would never engage Filip in conversation, she just gave him orders. Grigor always tried to make Filip feel like he was part of the team, but that was because he loved him, it didn’t reflect reality.

  Late at night, they both harboured dreams of throwing her overboard, or waiting until they were in England, then killing her and running away. They never did it, and now that they were no longer boys, those dreams seemed childish and impossible.

  Filip sighed and took Grigor’s hand in his. He repeated the same words one more time, ‘We have money saved. We could run away…’

  Grigor didn’t bother to answer, they both knew that would never be allowed to happen

  Chapter 12

  Date: Tuesday 25th April Time: 06:13 Miles Westlake’s house

  Claire Quick was seething with frustration. She was thirsty, urgently needed a pee and couldn’t get the ties off her wrists and ankles. Once she had come round last night, she had done her best to persuade Jamie and Miles to let her go, promising that she wouldn’t tell anybody what they had done. Miles was ready to believe her but Jamie showed a level of detachment about her condition that worried her. He had tied her up despite all her reassurances and pleading, and he must have been watching some pretty strange films, as she couldn’t get her hands up past her knees without contorting her body into a squat worthy of an escape artist.

  Didn’t they realise that very soon someone would notice that they were all missing? What was going on in their heads?

  Miles had almost convinced her that he hadn’t killed Carly, but it was clear that the girl had spent Saturday night and most of Sunday morning at the house with him. It made Claire feel even worse when she admitted to herself what that probably meant. Miles had broken a basic rule of teaching, Don’t mess with the kids. This was bad enough. It didn’t bear thinking about that he may have killed her too.

  Jamie, on the other hand, she wasn’t sure about at all. His behaviour was so extreme, he had frightened her. And jealousy was a powerful motive for murder.

  Would the fear of exposure to the Police, and the school authorities, be enough for them to keep her here against her will? Probably. At least they hadn’t killed her…yet. But she couldn’t see how they were going to be able to let her go now.

  Miles had persuaded Jamie to take the gag off if Claire promised not to scream, so she promised. At least she could breathe. And she had slept, folded up on the sofa with her wrists and ankles tied almost together, concussion making it easy for her to lose consciousness for a few hours.

  Now, it was dawn on Tuesday morning. Pale light came through the crack in the curtains but there was no noise yet of traffic or people. Claire didn’t know whether Jamie had stayed the night or gone home, but she had heard Miles getting into bed above her head during the night. Now was the time to have a proper go at getting away before he woke up.

  She could see her bag with car keys and phone on the floor near the fireplace. There was a small multi-purpose knife on her key ring, she just had to get to it. She managed a wry smile, once a Girl Guide… Claire tucked her legs up to the side, and slid off the sofa so that she landed on her knees. The surge of pain from her injured head made her dizzy. She sank down and laid her head on the rug. It took a few minutes for the wave of pain to subside. Claire sniffed back the tears that threatened to reduce her to a weeping heap and knelt up again.

  She shuffled towards her bag, feeling the blue cord, that she thought could be washing line, biting into her ankles and wrists. Using her teeth, Claire bent over the bag and undid the zip, wincing at each muffled sound. She could see her phone in its little pouch but couldn’t think of a way to use it without attracting attention, She’d have to hold it so far away from her mouth that she would need to shout. Better to get the knife.

  Her keys were in the bottom of the main compartment. She would have to be careful, as they would rattle when she moved them. With infinite care, she stuck her head into the cavity of the bag, suddenly overcome with the ridiculousness of what she was doing. She felt like a contestant on ‘I’m a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here,’ and had to clamp down on the hysteria that was threatening to worm its way out through her clenched teeth.

 
She located the keys, looped her tongue through the key ring and tried to lift the keys free from the bag. She had had no idea how heavy keys could be. True, she had never tried to lift anything with her tongue before. The giggling was threatening again. On the third attempt, she pulled the bag over and got her teeth onto the key ring. At last.

  Once the keys were out and on the floor, Claire picked them up with her bound hands. She had to bend almost double to open the blade and then sat back on her bottom, with her legs crossed in front of her. She was in danger of falling over backwards, so she twisted and wedged her back against the armchair, positioned the tiny blade in her fingers, and got to work. She sawed through the rope a bit at a time, fraying it with the blade rather than cutting it. Her ankles freed, she pushed herself upright by turning onto her knees, leaning on the chair seat to face the door. Almost defeated by the swaying of the room and the pain in her legs, she levered herself upright.

  One thing she knew with certainty, she would never sit with her back to a door again.

  Now, free her hands, or get out of the house and run? Claire made her way to the door, every sense on high alert. She could hear nothing. She had to have her hands loose, she was too vulnerable without them. She took the minutes necessary to free one hand, unable to concentrate as she strained every sense towards the door. She gasped with pain as the blade nicked the soft, white inside of her left wrist. She had missed the vein, but still it welled and dripped onto the floor. Stifling another overwhelming urge to sink down and sob, she took a huge gulp of air, slit the edge of her white work shirt and cut a strip wide enough to go round her wrist. She looked at the burn marks on her wrists made by the rope. The pain seemed far away at the moment, although the screaming pins and needles in her legs was coming through loud and clear as the blood surged back round the limbs. She held the strip of cloth with her teeth and tied it round her injured wrist, tucking the ends under with her free hand. At least it stopped the bleeding. Sighing, she pushed her hair out of her eyes and grasped the door knob.