Mark of the Devil: a gripping thriller that will have you hooked (Inspector Jim Carruthers Book 3)

by Tana Collins

  Aare took another long drag at his cigarette. This time he expelled it between his teeth. ‘No. There’s no way she would have taken her own life. She believed in what we were doing, what she was doing.’

  ‘So you believe she was murdered? Pushed from the cliffs.’

  ‘She’d got close to him, Aleks, in the six months she’d been undercover. Maybe too close. Her cover was obviously blown.’

  ‘Was she sleeping with him?’ asked Carruthers.

  ‘Probably. It was more than just a pimp–prostitute relationship.’

  ‘So he trusted her… confided in her?’ said Carruthers, wishing wholeheartedly that they’d managed to get to Hanna Mets before Aleks Voller had.

  ‘She was a professional in every sense. We’ll miss her. She was a great asset.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ said Carruthers, thinking about Fletcher. Would she have volunteered to go undercover, even subjected herself to being tattooed? Probably. Sleeping with the enemy, though? That was a different matter. Would she go that far? He wasn’t sure. He wondered how he’d feel if anything happened to her. He pushed the thought out of his mind. It made him feel sick.

  ‘Did she know what he might be doing in Scotland?’

  ‘All we knew was that Marek and Aleks Voller had a contact somewhere in Europe. We didn’t know which country, except we suspected it may be Britain. We knew the man had money, a good knowledge of art and contacts.’

  ‘Barry Cuthbert,’ said Carruthers. ‘I wonder how Hanna found out. And why she didn’t tell you?’

  Aare dropped the cigarette butt and slowly ground it into the cobbles. ‘I can only imagine she knew we would stop her going. Too dangerous. And on her own she would have no back up.’ He looked up at Carruthers. ‘How did you know she was Estonian?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ said Carruthers. ‘Although the police pathologist guessed she was Northern or Eastern European. Her dental work for one thing. We had an anonymous phone call from a girl… maybe a prostitute, giving us the name of Marika Paju. We found out that name is Estonian.’

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘She never said. Like I said it was an anonymous call. And all she said was that she recognised the photograph of the girl.’

  Aare looked puzzled. ‘That wasn’t the name she chose when she went undercover. Unless she switched names when she got to Scotland.’

  Carruthers frowned. He was trying to get everything clear in his head. ‘And Marika Paju. That name belongs to a real girl who’s missing. Her parents flew over from Tallinn to identify their daughter.’

  Aare fixed Carruthers with a curious stare. ‘That was unfortunate.’

  ‘So what happened to the real Marika Paju?’ said Carruthers. ‘Is she…?’

  ‘Most probably dead.’ Aare shrugged. ‘Another prostitute who had a drug problem.’

  Carruthers felt a tightening in his chest. He felt a knot of sudden pain but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. He thought about Marika Paju. How she had gone from being a runaway whose friends had given her enough money to travel to Scotland to ending up as a prostitute and possibly drug addict. He presumed somehow her path must have crossed the Vollers’ before she left Estonia. He then thought of her parents. All the agony the parents had been through then the relief of realising the dead girl wasn’t their daughter was to be in vain. Their child was most likely already dead. Perhaps they wouldn’t even get a body back. He didn’t want to ask Aare. Didn’t want to hear the answer. ‘When Hanna Mets was found she had a high level of diazepam in her system.’

  ‘Diazepam?’

  ‘Was she on diazepam, as far as you know?’ asked Carruthers.

  ‘No, I wasn’t aware of it. Perhaps it was used to sedate her before she was killed?’

  ‘Is diazepam used regularly in Estonia and Russia?’

  ‘It is one of the drugs we use, yes. Tell me about this man, Barry Cuthbert,’ said Aare. ‘What does he do?’

  Carruthers was a little taken aback at the turn of Aare’s conversation but he tried not to show it. ‘He owns a shooting estate in Fife.’

  They paused their conversation as the waitress served them their coffee.

  Carruthers lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip. It was good. He turned back to Aare. ‘Do you really think someone at your station is corrupt?’

  Aare lit another cigarette. ‘Not just corrupt. A murderer. How else do you think Mikael Tamm would have fallen into that trap? Someone at the station tipped off the Mafia. Must have.’

  Carruthers looked at him. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m working on it.’

  He drew closer to Carruthers. ‘Now tell me, when did you start to get an inkling there was a link between the stolen artworks and the Mafia?’

  ‘I just had a feeling.’

  Aare nodded. ‘Sometimes feelings pay off.’

  ‘I started to find connections between certain people,’ said Carruthers. ‘The way cops do. I began at the golf club. All those who’d been robbed were members of the same golf club. I started to wonder if someone at the club was passing on information about the members. Barry Cuthbert was a member. We found out he knew all the members who’d been robbed, he liked expensive art and had a private helipad.’

  Aare looked quizzically at Carruthers.

  ‘The National Crime Agency in London told me it’s possible whoever planned the robberies would have taken aerial photographs of the targets.’

  ‘Ah yes, I see.’

  ‘Anyway, my own superintendent is a member of the club,’ Carruthers continued. ‘It just so happened there was a function on at Cuthbert’s home. I felt it was too good an opportunity to miss so I staked the place out.’

  ‘Good thinking. Did it pay off?’

  ‘Yes. As I was watching I heard a helicopter approaching. The man now identified as Aleks Voller disembarked, as did four girls. Possibly Eastern European. Or the Baltic States,’ Carruthers added quickly, not wanting to offend. ‘Probably prostitutes. We have evidence to suggest Barry Cuthbert was involved in supplying prostitutes for select guests at parties. Bingham claims he knew nothing of this.’

  ‘Bingham?’

  ‘Superintendent Bingham.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens, I do.’

  ‘He must feel pretty foolish to have such friends.’

  Carruthers was wondering how Bingham was feeling. He almost missed the fact Aare was still talking.

  ‘Was he OK about you flying out here?’ said Aare.

  Carruthers cupped his coffee, blowing on it. ‘He wasn’t exactly ecstatic but he understands it’s important to gather as much information as possible and that the seeds of these crimes probably originate in Estonia.’

  ‘And it sounds like Barry Cuthbert’s the link?’

  ‘That’s what we think.’

  ‘Is there anyone else involved in Scotland, do you know? This is all useful information for us, too.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I hope it’s just Cuthbert and Voller who are the main players, but for all we know there could be a whole network of criminals stretching from Estonia to Scotland. Have you traced anyone else to the UK?’

  Aare shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t rule it out but let’s hope the line ends with Cuthbert and Voller. Will he make a full recovery? Barry Cuthbert?’ asked Aare, his blue eyes unblinking.

  ‘We hope so. As soon as he’s well enough he’s to be moved to a safe house.’

  ‘Much better than keeping him in hospital, I think. What will happen to him?’

  ‘There’s some talk about him being offered protection and a new identity in exchange for information.’

  ‘A good plan.’

  ‘We like to think so.’

  They lapsed into silence. Carruthers wondered how Barry Cuthbert was progressing. Made a mental note to call the station as soon as he could.

  ‘Tell me about these stolen artworks,’ said Aare. ‘What did this gang get away with?’


  ‘They snatched a Vettriano from a couple called McMullan who were raided a few days ago in Fife just before Barry Cuthbert got hit. Cuthbert lost a painting by George Stubbs. He paints horses,’ said Carruthers, not knowing how well Aare would know English painters.

  ‘And this Vettriano. What is it valued at?’ asked Aare.

  ‘It was last valued at £200,000.’

  Aare whistled. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’

  ‘And the other paintings? How many artworks have you lost in total?’

  ‘A Constable and a Sisley. Total estimated value: just under four million.’

  Aare’s eyes narrowed. ‘Four million. Someone stands to make a lot of money.’

  ‘Yes, I must admit I didn’t know much about art theft before working on these cases. The NCA were particularly helpful though.’

  ‘NCA?’

  ‘Oh sorry, the National Crime Agency. They told me that anyone who steals high-end works of art such as a Constable aren’t usually professional art thieves. Apparently it’s so hard to sell paintings on by really well-known artists.’

  ‘Yes, it’s fascinating.’ Aare glanced at his watch. Carruthers got the impression Aare was switching off from the conversation. He wondered why. Carruthers glanced at his own watch. It was ten.

  ‘I have some things to attend to,’ said Aare standing up. ‘Police business. I’ll make some phone calls. How are you set for meeting up later? Perhaps a meal in town?’

  ‘That would be great,’ said Carruthers.

  ‘I’ll book somewhere for tonight. I’ll give you a call. What will you do with the rest of your day?’

  ‘I’ll take a wander. Get a feel of the city. Maybe see if I can book a tour of the KGB room in the Viru.’

  ‘Ah yes, one of our top attractions. It is a must-see, as they say.’ He laid a hand lightly on Carruthers’s shoulder. ‘Now remember, make sure you keep away from the station. We mustn’t be seen there together.’

  Carruthers nodded. As Aare stood, Carruthers said, ‘I might stay and have another coffee. It’s good here.’ He called over the waitress and ignored the voice in his head that told him not to have a third cup.

  Aare nodded solemnly, shook Carruthers by the hand and left. Carruthers stared at his retreating back. The man was already talking urgently on his mobile.

  15

  An hour later Carruthers was back at the hotel. He spoke to the staff about organising a tour of the KGB room on the twenty-third floor. Luck was on his side. A tour was starting within the hour. He settled himself at a seat at the modern-looking bar by reception and asked for a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Sipped it while watching the guests going in and out of the hotel and tried to imagine the type of guests the hotel would have had thirty or forty years ago when Tallinn was all but closed to Westerners. He picked up a hotel pamphlet and started reading.

  He glanced at his watch. It was nearly midday. A small number of people had started to gather. Carruthers paid for the mineral water and joined them. He found himself with a bunch of noisy young Finns. There seemed to be a lot of Finns at the hotel. Carruthers wondered if they came over by ferry from Helsinki for a cheap weekend. He was pleased to see that the group had an English-speaking guide who introduced himself as Hendrik.

  They all squeezed into the lift and it rattled up to the twenty-second floor. ‘Officially, of course, the twenty-third floor doesn’t exist,’ said Hendrik, a tall blond young man who talked expressively, gesturing with his enormous hands. Carruthers was starting to realise just how many Estonians were blond. The guide got out of the lift at the final floor followed by the Finns and Carruthers. The man opened another door and started to ascend a short staircase. The party followed. They found themselves on a landing.

  ‘The two rooms on this top floor have been left exactly as they looked the day the last KGB agent walked out of them in 1991’, said Hendrik. ‘See the sign stencilled on the door outside?’ said the guide. ‘It reads “Zdes Nichevo Nyet”: There is nothing here.’

  Hendrik took a key and opened the door to the first room. Carruthers felt his pulse quickening. As a boy he had always been fascinated by spy stories and this was straight out of James Bond. He peered into the room, taking in the details. It was like a time warp. The floor inside was yellowed linoleum. A sheet of paper was jammed into a cheap orange typewriter. There were two old-fashioned telephones on the wooden table next to a cup and saucer, a white phone and a red phone. Carruthers noticed the mysterious red phone had no dial. Hendrik caught Carruthers looking at this strange phone.

  ‘There was no need for a dial. It went straight through to the KGB Headquarters in Tallinn.’

  Carruthers found himself swallowing an uncomfortable lump in his throat. He imagined the little old ladies imparting their information to the men in uniform on the twenty-third floor and what it might mean for those unfortunate guests who were on the KGB’s radar.

  ‘Let us go into the second room,’ said Hendrik. ‘There is more to see in there.’

  They trooped out. Carruthers heard a shriek of laughter and took a backwards glance to see one of the Finns sitting posing at the desk, red phone in hand, while others took pictures of her. Carruthers frowned.

  They spilled into the second room. When the final Finn had walked in Hendrik shut the door behind him. Carruthers gazed around the larger room. The first thing that caught his eye was the yellowing sheets filled with typed notes spilling off the table and onto the floor. The dial of a light blue telephone on the particleboard desk had been smashed. A discarded gas mask lay on the desk. Carruthers’ eyes strayed to the ashtray which was overflowing with cigarette butts. Carruthers peered at them. They didn’t look recent. One of the Finns cracked a joke and a couple of the others laughed.

  ‘When the Iron Curtain came down, just after the Second World War,’ said Hendrik, ‘tiny Estonia, today a population of just 1.5 million people, was absorbed into the USSR and this former republic was cut off from the outside world.’

  Carruthers tuned out the conversation of the excitable Finns and imagined the KGB going about their secret business in this room.

  ‘We all know that Tallinn is a top tourist destination now but back in the 1960s tourism was just starting up,’ said Hendrik, ‘Tallinn received just a few hundred foreign visitors a year. The bosses in Moscow realised that millions of dollars in tourism was just passing the Soviet Union by. This gave them a problem. How could they get their hands on some of the much-needed money tourism brings, but at the same time monitor the comings and goings of their visitors? After all, they didn’t want these tourists to spread any new ideas which might threaten the socialist order.

  ‘The Russians decided,’ continued the guide, ‘that opening a ferry line from Finland was a great way of getting their hands on some of that money. However, they still had the problem of how to keep track of their visitors. Their solution was to build the Hotel Viru. Within a year of opening, 15,000 people a year were pouring into Tallinn, mostly Finns and homesick Estonian exiles. Everyone entering was made to stay here in this hotel. The reason? Sixty guest rooms were bugged with listening devices hidden in the walls, phones and ashtrays; there were peepholes, too. In the hotel restaurant, ashtrays and bread plates held more listening devices. They even had the sauna bugged.’

  ‘Why would they put listening devices in the sauna?’ asked a red-headed woman.

  ‘The Russians knew that the Finns loved doing business in saunas. Clever idea, eh? Believe it or not, they even had antennae placed on the roof which could pick up radio signals both from passing ships and from Helsinki.’

  Carruthers was amazed, lost in thoughts about post-war Eastern Bloc espionage.

  Hendrik’s voice brought him back to the present. ‘Yet on an August night in 1991, perhaps unnerved by the imminent collapse of the Soviet Union, the hotel’s rarely seen owners simply disappeared. Even after their departure the staff who worked here were too terrified to ventur
e upstairs to the mysterious twenty-third floor. They waited weeks before finally finding the courage. And this is what greeted them. Abandoned uniforms, smashed phones, scattered papers and overflowing ashtrays. Bulky radio equipment was left still bolted to the concrete walls.’

  Carruthers wondered what had happened to the little old ladies when the KGB had left. Did they go back to being grandmothers? It occurred to him that not all the KGB had left, or if they had, some of the former KGB were now back as Mafia.

  The pitch of Hendrik’s voice changed. ‘A few years later, the Viru was bought by the Finnish Sokos Hotels chain, having been privatised. If it had been purchased by an Estonian company, it’s very likely they would have dismantled these rooms in an attempt to block out any memories of what the Russians did here. As you can imagine there was much suffering under Soviet rule. However, the Finns could be much more objective than their Estonian neighbours. Perhaps sensing a marketing opportunity for making this hotel one of Estonia’s top tourist attractions, which it has now become, the new owners left the top floor untouched when they revamped the building.’

  As soon as the fascinating visit was over, Carruthers returned to his room to gather his thoughts. He retrieved his mobile from his pocket and returned calls from Fletcher and Bingham before recharging it. No major headway had been made in Scotland. He hadn’t missed much. He hoped to learn more over the evening meal with Aare before reporting back to Bingham. He collected his wallet and mobile and headed downstairs. He decided to go for a walk and have lunch in a café. Then he saw the blonde woman from breakfast speaking to one of the girls behind reception.

  On seeing him, the woman headed his way, smiling.

  ‘I’m just heading out to find a café for lunch,’ he found himself saying. ‘Would you like to join me? Our conversation got interrupted this morning.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. My husband. Or, should I say, ex-husband, making things difficult as usual. Let’s just say we’re still thrashing out the financial cost of getting divorced. I have a few hours free before a meeting. I would love to join you for lunch.’