by Tana Collins
‘Run by Aleks Voller?’
‘If you say so.’
Fletcher turned away from Cuthbert and started walking towards the door. She gestured for Watson to do the same.
‘OK, OK. Yes. Supplied by Aleks Voller. Happy now?’
Fletcher hesitated, turned round, grabbed the chair and sat down again.
‘Did you kill Hanna Mets?’ said Watson.
‘Who?’
‘The young woman who fell to her death from the cliffs at the beach at Pinetum Park Forest,’ said Fletcher.
‘Do you know the penalty for killing a police officer?’ said Watson.
‘A police officer? I thought your gaffer told me she was a prostitute.’
‘We originally thought she was a prostitute,’ said Fletcher. ‘Turns out she was an undercover cop.’
Cuthbert shook his head. ‘I had nuffin’ to do with her death. Or anybody else’s.’
‘Could she have been killed by Aleks Voller?’ Fletcher looked in the man’s eyes as she asked the question. He was certainly a lot of things. Would clearly sell his own grandmother if the price was right. But murder? Fletcher didn’t think so.
‘We believe your young gamekeeper, Joe McGuigan, was murdered because he knew something. Or had seen something. One of the two. Most likely seen. And he wanted to talk. He wanted to talk about what he’d seen while he was out on the cliffs laying poison to kill birds of prey on your orders.’
‘Could that girl’s death not have been an accident?’ Cuthbert asked.
Fletcher thought quickly. If it had been an accident why would Joe McGuigan have been murdered? Not for just wanting to talk about poisoned birds of prey, that’s for sure. However, they still had no proof Hanna Mets had been murdered. It could have been an accident or suicide. Unlikely, though. Perhaps they would never find out.
‘You’re right. We don’t know yet how Hanna Mets died. We suspect murder. But what we do know is that she’d been drugged before she’d been killed, Barry. It’s also possible she’d been raped.’
Cuthbert’s face drained of colour. ‘Oh no. You’re not pinning that on me. Look, maybe she crossed the line with Voller and he killed her. He was a bit of a psycho. I was scared of him.’
The two police officers exchanged looks once more. Watson snorted. ‘I can’t imagine you being scared of anyone.’
‘Did you ever meet her? Hanna Mets?’ said Fletcher.
‘No. That photograph you showed me wasn’t familiar. But if she was an undercover police officer and Voller found out…’ His voice trailed away. ‘But she could have been pregnant by him. He was sleeping with several of his girls.’ Cuthbert cleared his throat. ‘Look, if you must know, I was being blackmailed by Voller. He insisted I use his prostitutes at my parties.’
‘What did he have on you?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Do I get my protection from you guys or what?’
‘You have it,’ said Fletcher.
‘Not that it’s worth much,’ he said. No doubt he was thinking of the earlier shootings.
‘You’re under armed guard.’ Fletcher watched the potential of that implication sink in.
‘What about the protection for the information I’m giving you? I want immunity.’
‘We’ll do what we can, Barry. But do you really think the police are your biggest problem right now?’
‘Oh, Jesus, look. Yes, I had girls at my parties. I used to get them from Glasgow then Aleks Voller appeared on the scene. He started putting pressure on me to use his girls. He’s not a man you can easily say no to.’
‘Keep talking,’ said Watson. ‘What did he have on you?’
Cuthbert licked his lips. ‘I might have… sold a few paintings on. He found out. Said if I didn’t go in with him, he’d make sure my business went down.’
‘Sold a few paintings on?’ Fletcher snorted. ‘That’s an interesting euphemism for fencing, but you were doing a bit more than that, weren’t you, Barry? You were stealing the paintings, too.’ She looked at this man who clearly thought nothing of stealing from his friends and business associates. ‘You’re behind all the art thefts in the area.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Nothing more than a middleman.’
‘Oh, I think a lot more than just middleman, Barry. Don’t you? You found out through your golf club connections which members had valuable works of art and passed on that information. I imagine you still had contacts from your time in prison. You probably thought you had a nice little number going until you met Aleks Voller.’ As she said this, Fletcher felt the bile rise up in her throat for a man who could sell out his friends and colleagues the way Cuthbert had. ‘We know Aleks Voller has a brother. Who do they work for?’
Cuthbert shook his head. ‘He never gave me a name. Said I was better off not knowing. Just said something strange about my doing the devil’s work.’
Fletcher weighed up whether she believed him or not. She did. After all, what would Cuthbert care where the artworks went as long as he got his money. Blood money, thought Fletcher, remembering the growing number of dead.
She stood up. Decided they had enough to be going on with. ‘OK, Barry, we’ll continue this later when we make it more formal. In the meantime we need to get back to the station but we’ll get you moved somewhere safe.’
Barry Cuthbert nodded. ‘How soon?’
‘Soon as we can,’ said Fletcher, picking up her handbag and putting it over her shoulder.
She and Watson left the room. ‘We need to get back to Dr Mackie,’ said Fletcher. ‘See what he’s got for us. We also need to get Voller’s mobile to forensics. See if there’s anything on it that can help Jim.’ They walked out of the hospital and to the car. As Fletcher was climbing into the passenger seat, Watson’s mobile rang. The older woman answered it as she sat down. Somehow she managed to put her seatbelt on as she held the phone glued to her ear.
‘They’ve managed to get into Cuthbert’s safe,’ she hissed.
Fletcher found she was holding her breath. And her heart skipped a beat at what Watson said next.
‘They found passports. British passports. Eight of them. All for women aged between sixteen and twenty-five.’
‘Forged?’ asked Fletcher.
‘I’d put my money on it. Wouldn’t you?’
21
Carruthers sat in the Estonian sunshine sipping a coffee. He looked at the phone numbers in front of him that Fletcher had sent. Thank God for iPhones that had access to email. With the help of John Forrest, the station’s resident IT geek, Fletcher had managed to access Aleks Voller’s phone. The contacts from the man’s mobile were laid out in front of Carruthers. He sipped the bitter aromatic coffee as he scanned the numbers. There was one that was already familiar. That of Kert Ilves. Proof positive of the connection between the ex-Estonian policeman and the ruthless Tallinn criminal gang. He wondered if Kert Ilves had been the man responsible for the deaths of his former colleagues. Now what he needed to do was pass on this information to Jakobson.
The net was closing in.
Aleks Voller’s mobile had certainly turned up trumps. As well as the list of numbers, they had intercepted a voicemail. Now they knew where Voller’s flat was. A nondescript street in the centre of the former mining town of Kirkcaldy.
Fletcher and Watson stood at the door of Voller’s rented accommodation. Both were wearing stab vests. Fletcher hadn’t spent much time here socially. Mostly she came here on police business, however she had been to the famous Kirkcaldy Links Market, held in April, reputedly the longest fair in Europe. She couldn’t remember who she’d been with but she did remember that she’d gone on a fairground ride that had left her feeling sick for hours after.
Fletcher steeled herself then gave the sign and two male officers, wearing both stab vests and riot helmets, used the battering ram on the front door. The wood splintered on the third attempt and finally the lock was broken and the door swung in. The officers ran into the premises with Fletcher, Watson and several other office
rs taking up the rear. Fletcher took out her truncheon. She wrinkled her nose. There was a mixture of smells – urine, sex and sweat. A sense of foreboding gripped her. The two officers who had used the battering ram disappeared into the back of the flat.
Fletcher walked into the first room on the left with her truncheon raised. It was a small bedroom dominated by a double bed in the middle of the room. What little furniture there was in the room was cheap. The bed was unmade. Dirty sheets rumpled. The stale smell of cigarettes, sweat and sex. A used condom lay on the bed. An open packet of cigarettes on the cheap bedside table. She opened the wardrobe. A couple of expensive white shirts and a pair of black trousers hung in the wardrobe at odds with the grimy, uncared for appearance of the flat. She shut the door.
‘Nothing in here,’ said Watson. And she was right. Aside from the clothes there was no sign of personal effects anywhere. No photographs, no books, nothing.
Fletcher followed Watson out of the room and shut the door. They entered another room. A bathroom. There was an old discoloured towel hanging from the towel rack. Fletcher opened the cabinet. Mouthwash, toothpaste, a travel toothbrush and some cotton wool. Fletcher shut the door behind them. This time they entered the living room. No personal effects, just a sofa and small table.
‘He must have another flat somewhere,’ said Fletcher. On the table lay a diary next to a packet of cigarettes. Fletcher picked it up and flicked through it. ‘Strange this diary being here.’
‘Maybe it was left by accident?’ This from Watson who was checking down the back and sides of the sofa. She unearthed nothing more than a dirty hanky and a cheap black ballpoint pen.
Fletcher, still flicking through the diary, opened the page on that day’s date. ‘There’s a time written here – 6pm, and a word, “Muuga”. Another word I can’t pronounce and then the number 9. A meeting of some sort?’ She looked up, hearing footsteps on the scratched wooden floor. One of the uniform officers now walked towards her. He was young looking as if he was straight out of police college, his face awash with acne.
‘We’ve found something. You’d better come see, ma’am,’ he said.
‘What have you got?’ Fletcher shut the diary, placed it in an evidence bag she took out of her pocket, quickly unzipped her shoulder bag and dropped the diary in before zipping it back up. She’d have to read it later.
They walked down the corridor. He opened wide the door to the back room. The interior was dark. She could see it was larger than the previous room but all she could see were shapes. There was no natural light.
‘See for yourself,’ he said. ‘Oh, by the way, the light doesn’t work. Already tried it.’
Before Fletcher walked into the room she heard a sob. She took a tentative step forward as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. And another. But it was the unassailable smells that made her nose wrinkle. Sweat, sex and urine. As it was still too dark to see properly she brought out her mobile and used the light from that to show her the way. She narrowed her eyes as she tried to focus on what was in the room. Twelve pairs of frightened eyes stared back at her. All the girls were crouching on the floor at the back of the room. They wore tiny little tops and skirts exposing skinny arms and legs. Some of the girls had needle tracks in their arms, all of them looked young and malnourished. Fletcher was drawn to a pretty blonde girl wearing a pink mini skirt, with a tattoo on her ankle, older than the rest, who had her arm round a girl who looked no more than fifteen. Fletcher recognised the tattoo immediately as the same tattoo that had been on the ankle of the dead girl, Hanna Mets, and on the prostitute photographed with Barry Cuthbert. Here was the mark of the Haravere gang, and the mark of the devil.
‘Is he dead?’ asked the girl with the pink miniskirt. Her voice was thickly accented.
‘Who?’ asked Fletcher.
The girl nodded. ‘The man with the ponytail.’
‘Yes. He’s dead.’
The girl said something in a foreign language to the others before turning back to Fletcher. ‘Good,’ was all she said.
The girls stayed quiet, withdrawn. All the fight gone from them, their spirits broken. Fletcher knew these young women would take a long time to recover. Some never would. She wondered how their parents would recover from their daughters’ trauma. After all, it would affect the whole family. She swallowed hard. How would she have… no, she wouldn’t go there.
Her gaze was drawn to a girl a little older than the rest. Still looked a teenager though. She also had blonde hair. There was a familiarity about her. Fletcher felt she had seen her recently. Or an older version of her. The resemblance to Marika Paju’s mother, Karen Paju, was so striking her heart jumped in her mouth.
‘Marika Paju?’ Fletcher asked. The girl looked at her and nodded. She couldn’t believe it. What were the chances? Fletcher made her way over to her and knelt down beside her.
‘Your parents are looking for you,’ said Fletcher. ‘You are safe now.’ Fletcher took the girl’s hands in hers and rubbed them but the girl wordlessly took her hands away and let them fall into her lap. ‘We will take you back to your mother? Do you understand?’
The girl nodded again.
Fletcher looked into the dead eyes of the girl. She didn’t want to imagine what a horrifying ordeal Marika had been through. Fletcher felt a lump the size of a golf ball in her throat. For a brief moment she wondered how the girl would adjust when she got back home. If the parents had been overprotective before, they probably wouldn’t let their daughter out of the house now. Knowing this wasn’t her problem, she steeled herself to be professional.
‘Can you all stand up?’ Fletcher addressed her question to the blonde girl who in turn said something to the other girls. One by one they got to their feet. All except the girl who looked about fifteen.
‘Why can’t she stand up?’ asked Watson.
‘We think her leg is broken. He did it this morning. She tried to run away.’ Fletcher now saw the unnatural position the leg was in. Fletcher’s eyes welled up and momentarily she turned away, tears obscuring her vision. Some of these girls looked so young. Hardly into, let alone out of, puberty. There was another small stifled sob from the youngest girl.
Fletcher composed herself, and thinking of the girl with the broken leg, turned to the officer at the door and said, ‘Call the ambulance service, will you? And try to find some blankets or coats for them.’ She turned round and, directing her next question to the blonde haired girl, said, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Most are from Estonia, one from Latvia and she,’ she said pointing at another girl, who stood with her back against the wall, ‘is from Moldova.’
Fletcher fished out Aleks Voller’s diary. ‘Do you know what this means?’ She showed the girl the entry in the diary by the light of her mobile.
The girl squinted although she was probably more used to the poor light than Fletcher. Fletcher wondered how long the light had been broken and how long the girls had endured being kept in the dark.
“Shipment. Muuga. It’s a harbour. Quay Nine. Household goods. 6pm.”
‘Household goods?’ echoed Fletcher. ‘I wonder what sort of household goods.’
‘I hear him talking on the mobile. The man with the ponytail. I pretend to be asleep. I do not know about this particular entry but they have regular shipments leaving Tallinn harbour.’
‘What’s in these shipments?’ asked Fletcher. ‘People?’
The girl shrugged. ‘People. Sometimes. Also other stuff.’
‘Art? Pictures?’
The blonde girl shook her head. ‘I do not know.’
‘Where do these shipments go?’ asked Watson.
‘Finland. After Finland? Who knows?’
Fletcher placed a hand on the girl’s bony shoulder. ‘How did you get here, to Fife?’
‘Is that where I am?’
Poor girl, thought Fletcher, she doesn’t even know where she is.
‘Aleks Voller, he has a passport for me.’
Forged, thought Fletc
her.
‘And the other girls. Three of us come over together. We are told we have good jobs to be nannies.’
Fletcher thought about Barry Cuthbert’s safe and the passports that had so recently been found. Marika started crying quietly. She’d been promised a well-paid job working in her dream country. Instead she had ended up working as a sex slave after being moved like livestock. All her dreams would be in tatters now.
Fletcher kept her phone in her hand as she knelt down beside Marika. She chided herself. Now wasn’t the time to be asking these questions. An in-depth interview would have to wait. She had to get the girls checked out in hospital, especially the youngster with the possible break. She glanced at her watch. And if there was a shipment coming in at 6pm there wasn’t much time to alert Carruthers. She called him. Prayed he’d answer.
Carruthers was down by the harbour watching a huge white cruise ship set sail for Helsinki when his mobile rang. The wind had picked up and the waves were choppy. As he watched the ship slip out of the harbour he held the pay-as-you-go mobile closer to his ear. As Fletcher was talking he glanced at his watch. He didn’t know where Muuga Harbour was but if there was a shipment leaving the harbour at 6pm they had two hours before it was due to leave. He started to walk away, conscious that he didn’t want to be seen down by the harbour. He wound up the conversation with Fletcher then called Jakobson. He’d walked fast and was standing on the edge of the Old Town within ten minutes. He tasted the salt of the sea and his perspiration on his top lip.
Jakobson had some news of his own. ‘We’ve located Janek Kuul.’
‘Where? Is he OK?’ Carruthers looked around him to see if anyone was listening. Despite it being the summer there was a chill to the wind that cooled his perspiring forehead. One thing he hadn’t been ready for had been the weather. He’d never been in such a heatwave. Much worse than anything he’d been through down south. The Scots generally didn’t do well in hot weather. He looked down at his pale Scottish arms. The Estonian sun was bringing out his freckles. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt. His arms were already starting to burn. He wondered vaguely if the weather had broken in Scotland yet.
