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

by Tana Collins

  ‘He’s fine. He apologises for not being in touch. He had to lie low for a while. I’ve passed on the mobile phone numbers you’ve given me. He says to say thanks. That list has been hugely helpful. What with that and the information you’ve just given us we’ve got enough to bring down the Haravere gang. Most crucially, we now also know who their contact is inside the police station here. We’re setting a trap for the man. We think you should get out of Estonia soon. An earlier flight than the one you booked has been organised for you. The Estonian police will pay all expenses.’ The man sounded jubilant. ‘There is, however, one last thing you can do for us.’

  ‘Which is what?’

  ‘Come to the police station in thirty minutes. We want you to be in on this. Now, I need to go. I need to get organised for our trip to the docks.’

  Carruthers looked at his watch. He wondered what Jakobson had planned.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ said Carruthers as he took his bulletproof vest from Jakobson.

  ‘Yes. This is very necessary. We’re not taking any chances.’ They were in an office at the station. Jakobson had locked the door from the inside and had put the blinds down so they could dress without being disturbed by prying eyes.

  ‘What do you expect to happen?’ Carruthers asked anxiously.

  ‘We’re going to arrest the man or men responsible for the deaths of my colleagues. We’ve already got someone about to pick up Kert Ilves. And, as I said, we now know who the informant inside the station is. Since you helped bring the gang down I thought it was only fitting you get to sit in on the arrests, as it were.’ Jakobson looked at his watch. ‘We’re having a station meeting in fifteen minutes. I’ve asked everyone to be there. Don’t worry. If all goes to plan, you’ll have enough time to get to the airport for tonight’s flight. I’ll drive you myself.’

  Carruthers sat and waited expectantly for the meeting to start. Thirty people were assembled. There was an air of anticipation.

  Jakobson stood up to speak. ‘As we have a special guest with us who is here helping our investigations from Scotland, DI Jim Carruthers, I am going to conduct this station meeting in English. Is everyone OK with this?’

  There were low murmurs and nods of approval.

  Jakobson continued speaking. ‘We have all experienced a terrible personal loss with the deaths on active duty of three of our friends and colleagues this week.’

  Carruthers looked around the room. One or two people were visibly upset. A young woman brought a large handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘We’ve known for a long time that we have in our midst a spy who has been passing on information,’ said Jakobson. ‘The information he passed on recently led directly to the ambush and murder of three good people.’

  ‘You said, “he,” does that mean you know who it is?’ said a slim-built man in his fifties from the back of the room.

  Jakobson hesitated. Carruthers could see that he was choosing his words carefully.

  ‘Not yet but we are close.’

  Carruthers frowned. That’s not what he had been told. Perhaps this was their strategy. They were going to draw the man out rather than just name him. Carruthers had to assume Jakobson knew what he was doing; however, he wouldn’t have wanted to name the man responsible for the death of three of their colleagues in a room full of grieving and angry police. Surely they would rip him to shreds?

  ‘In the meantime we have some excellent news,’ continued Jakobson. ‘Aleks Voller has been located in Scotland. Unfortunately he is dead.’ Jakobson couldn’t suppress a smile and a murmur that sounded suspiciously like a restrained cheer circled the room. ‘As far as we can tell, this information hasn’t yet got to his brother or the rest of the Haravere gang and I would like to keep it like that. The Scottish police have also raided one of Voller’s flats and have discovered and released twelve trafficked girls.’ There was applause from around the room. ‘We also now know that there will be a shipment leaving Muuga Harbour tonight which we plan to intercept. Once and for all we will finally bring this gang down.’

  He paused. ‘Now I would like to thank DI Carruthers for flying over from Scotland to assist us. He had forged a close bond with Mikael Tamm before his death.’

  There was a ripple of applause. Well, that’s not strictly true, thought Carruthers. I only spoke to him a couple of times.

  ‘Now, let’s get down to other business. I’m going to assign some jobs.’ As Jakobson said this, Carruthers was aware that a youngish man from the centre of the room stood up and made his way towards the door, clutching his mobile.

  ‘Martin, can you keep your bathroom break for later unless it’s absolutely urgent?’ said Jakobson. ‘I’m going to start with your assigned jobs.’

  ‘I’ll just be a minute.’

  ‘Well, can you keep your phone in the meeting room?’

  Martin looked confused. ‘My mobile?’

  ‘You won’t be needing that in the bathroom, will you?’

  It all happened in a second. The penny dropped for Martin and he suddenly sprinted towards the door. However, Jakobson was too quick for him and blocked the door with his body. Carruthers saw Martin slip his right hand into the band of his jeans.

  Carruthers found himself shouting, ‘He’s got a gun.’ He heard a woman screaming from inside the room.

  Carruthers saw the glint of the gun as Martin managed to withdraw it from his trouser band but Jakobson felled Martin with one punch. The gun skittered across the floor. Martin got heavily back to his feet but he was no match for Jakobson who grabbed him in a neck lock, and Carruthers watched in fascinated horror as a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a red face picked up the gun and strode over to Martin pointing it at the younger man’s head. There can’t be a single person in this room, thought Carruthers, who doesn’t want to kill Martin. He wondered how Jakobson was going to get him out alive.

  Martin faced his colleague, daring the older man to shoot him. He’d rather be dead than face his paymasters after a failure, thought Carruthers. Now Martin was unarmed, Jakobson released him from the neck lock. Jakobson shouted something in Estonian. He’s probably telling the other man to stand down. The older man reluctantly lowered Martin’s gun. It all happened so quickly. Martin suddenly made a lunge for the gun but the older man was on the ball and too quick for him. The older man stepped out of the way, aimed the gun level with Martin’s knee. A deafening noise and an ear-piercing scream as the bullet shattered the man’s kneecap and he fell to the ground.

  ‘It was reasonable force, sir, he would have killed one of us, I had to do something.’

  Carruthers knew that was way beyond reasonable force but in all likelihood that would never appear on any official record.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Carruthers, fifteen minutes later.

  ‘Muuga Harbour,’ said Jakobson. ‘Largest cargo port in Estonia. We have to be quick so grab your jacket. It will hide your Kevlar.’

  Carruthers didn’t need to be told twice. He swept the jacket off the back of the seat and put it on in one move. The bulletproof vest felt bulky under his jacket. They left the building and made their way to a convoy of cars. Carruthers, with his long, lean strides, easily kept up with the Estonian men. He had only been in Estonia a couple of days but he already knew so much more about the country, about the crimes, than when he first arrived. Little Estonia, Europe’s fastest growing economy, and Europe’s largest drug problem.

  ‘You come in my car,’ said Jakobson. Carruthers didn’t need to be told twice. He hopped in the passenger seat of Jakobson’s car, struggling to buckle up over the cumbersome bulletproof vest and jacket. Jakobson started the engine. ‘It’s not far. Only thirteen km north east of Tallinn.’

  They drove out of the city to the vast flat area of Muuga Harbour.

  ‘It’s huge,’ said Carruthers, in awe.

  ‘Twenty-nine quays. We’re going to park up in the car park of a nearby quay where there’s a big shipment arriving. Th
at way we won’t arouse suspicion. From there we’ll set off on foot.’ Jakobson parked up in the car park of Quay Seven. Carruthers watched as Jakobson 1took out a pair of binoculars and scanned a couple of quays down. ‘I’ve got them in my sights.’ Carruthers followed the Estonian man’s line of vision. Even without binoculars Carruthers could see a freight ship in a nearby quay being loaded with lorries. He wondered if these lorries contained the ‘household goods’. The phrase ‘household goods’ covers a multitude of sins but does it also cover stolen works of art, drugs, women and God knows what else?

  His stomach twisted. He knew that trafficked men, women and children were transported by lorry. Jakobson handed Carruthers the binoculars. Carruthers trained them on the freight ship. He watched as three men jumped out of the lorries. They stood in a knot, laughing and smoking. They seemed relaxed, joking with each other. As well they might, thought Carruthers. They didn’t know they were being watched. He passed the binoculars back to Jakobson and tried to settle his nerves. Their not knowing was a good thing. He wondered if they were members of the gang or just cheap labour.

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Carruthers.

  ‘We’re waiting for Kurat, for Marek Voller to arrive,’ said Jakobson.

  Carruthers raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected Kurat himself to show.

  They didn’t have long to wait. In his peripheral vision Carruthers could make out three men walking down the harbour. The man in the middle was of particular interest to Carruthers. Even if he hadn’t recognised him, or rather a likeness of him, Carruthers would have understood the importance of the tall, lean man who was flanked by two shorter, muscular men.

  Bodyguards, thought Carruthers.

  The man in the centre had his dark hair tied in a ponytail. Carruthers gestured for the binoculars. He was given them and trained them on the man. Carruthers found he was holding his breath. The man was the spitting image of Aleks Voller.

  Carruthers once again handed the binoculars back to Jakobson. ‘Aleks Voller’s brother,’ was all he said.

  ‘Marek Voller. The mastermind behind the gang. And the man they call “Kurat”,’ Jakobson confirmed.

  ‘They’ll be armed.’ It was more an observation than a question from Carruthers.

  ‘Don’t worry. We have the border guard with us. They have semi-automatic machine guns,’ said Jakobson as he opened the door. ‘Although we want to try to take them alive. Now we get out of the car and start walking.’

  Both men alighted from the car. Carruthers hoped there wouldn’t be a bloodbath. But he couldn’t see, if both parties were armed, how bloodshed would be avoided. He thought back to the ambush that had killed three of the Estonian police. He hoped this outcome would be very different.

  ‘The problem has always been that we need to catch them red-handed.’ Jakobson walked briskly. ‘Up until now they’ve always been one step ahead, too clever for us.’

  Carruthers’ breathing was becoming shallow, his hands were sweating. Not so much from the exertion, more from the adrenaline that was coursing through him. He wondered if this was how Mikael Tamm had felt before his ill-fated ambush. What if this gang were still one step ahead of them and staging another trap?

  A shout in Estonian down by the quay distracted him. He looked up to see a thin young woman wearing a skimpy blouse and skirt running out of the freight area.

  ‘Jesus, he has women as part of the freight cargo, after all,’ Carruthers said.

  ‘Then this is the real thing and we’ve got him,’ said Jakobson, brandishing his weapon.

  Carruthers swallowed a hard lump in his throat.

  ‘Get ready, but I want you to stay here,’ said Jakobson. He had hidden himself behind a parked car. ‘No heroics.’ Jakobson drew out a walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket and fired off a blast of Estonian into it.

  Carruthers shivered. How could this not be a bloodbath? These were the ruthless criminals who had murdered three of these men’s colleagues in cold blood. How would he feel if he were one of these police officers? Would he be able to maintain his professionalism? The truth was that not only did he not know any of the men well enough to know how they would react, he didn’t even know how he would react if he were one of them. Would they not want revenge? Could they be entirely professional?

  As Jakobson was speaking, one of the two men walking with Voller broke into a run after the girl. She veered away and Carruthers was appalled to see her, after hesitating a brief moment, jump straight into the water. Jesus Christ. I hope she can swim. Carruthers also realised that this was an excellent time to hit this gang while Voller and his men were distracted by the girl.

  Jakobson fired a single word into the walkie-talkie and Carruthers held his breath as he watched a firearms team descend on the three men. Voller and the second bodyguard were staring into the murky depths of the water. The man who had been pursuing the girl stopped running towards the harbour edge, turned round. Carruthers could see him start as he saw a police officer running towards him. In an instant the man withdrew a gun from his waistband and pointed it at the nearest officer. Before he had a chance to fire, a shot rang out and Voller’s bodyguard went down, clutching his leg.

  Want to disable, not kill, thought Carruthers with some relief.

  The men who had been loading the freight dropped the cargo they were carrying and ran. Hired help. That is good.

  The Estonian police broke cover, Carruthers with them, and also started running, guns drawn. Carruthers had a kaleidoscope of thoughts whirling through his head but the overriding thought was that he hoped the girl in the water was still alive. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.

  He watched aghast as Marek Voller pointed his weapon at one of the approaching police officers. Marek fired straight into the man’s chest. The man went down. Carruthers felt physically sick. Another shot rang out, this time from a marksman, and Marek’s weapon was shot out of his hand and skittered along the tarmac.

  Great shot.

  As Voller made for his weapon another marksman shot Voller in the shoulder. Holding his shoulder with his opposite hand, Marek carried on running until a second shot rang out and Carruthers saw Voller collapsed on the ground. A shot to the leg had knocked him from his feet, but the man wasn’t stopping. He was dragging himself towards his weapon. Carruthers found himself crouching, wondering when he could make a bolt for it and try to help the poor girl in the water. Making a decision and ignoring what the Estonians had told him, he rose from his crouched position and ran towards the tarmac of the harbour. Carruthers arrived at the edge of the quay and looked over into the murky depths. What he saw made his blood run cold. The girl was floating face down in the water.

  Ignoring the metal ladder he jumped into the water. The cold made him gasp out loud as he struggled over to the girl, his bulletproof vest making movement difficult. As he drew level he turned her on her back, and putting his hand under her chin he swam her to the side of the quay. He dragged her lifeless body back up the metal rungs with difficulty and finally laid her out on her back on the tarmac. He kneeled beside her and proceeded to give her two emergency breaths mouth-to-mouth and chest compressions. He heard another couple of shots ring out around him but he ignored them. He knew Marek Voller had now been disabled and was confident that the Estonian police were on top of the situation.

  After what seemed like an age he felt a warm hand touch his arm.

  ‘She’s gone. There’s nothing more you can do for her.’

  It was Jakobson’s voice. Still Carruthers refused to accept that the girl was actually dead. He gave two more rescue breaths and was about to start the chest compressions again but he felt himself being physically pulled up by Jakobson. Carruthers stood up shakily to see the Estonian had taken his jacket off and was covering the girl’s body. Carruthers looked away. Should have moved sooner.

  Jakobson was gesturing at Carruthers to follow him. Clearly he wanted to examine the cargo. Carruthers stood up. It was only then tha
t he realised he was dripping wet. Great puddles of water were pooling at his feet and despite the heat of the day he shivered. He followed Jakobson who walked into the dark of the container. Carruthers saw Jakobson open the heavy looking bolt that had locked the first lorry.

  ‘What is the shipment meant to contain?’ asked Carruthers.

  ‘Household effects.’

  Of course. Household effects. Carruthers felt his heart in his mouth. This was the moment they had been waiting for. He couldn’t go home with nothing. He just couldn’t. He could just imagine what Bingham would tell the new DCI about him. Yeah, he went all the way to Estonia and came back empty-handed. He imagined this new DCI being offered a glass of whisky in Bingham’s office the way he had. He wondered idly if she drank whisky. He was the rightful DCI, damn it!

  Jakobson managed to open the stiff bolt and pulled it back, opening the back of the lorry. The sound of weeping, and the stench was unmistakable. He shouted something in Estonian and one of his men came over with a torchlight. He switched it on and pointed it into the back of the lorry. About twenty women and girls were crammed into the lorry.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Carruthers said. How long, he wondered, had they been in there?

  Jakobson took in a deep breath and held on to it before motioning for two of his men to come forward and they boarded the lorry to help bring the trafficked women out safely. Shaking his head, he turned to Carruthers. ‘I have a daughter the same age as some of these girls.’

  22

  A weary Carruthers walked into Castletown Police Station the next morning. He’d not slept properly and every muscle ached. He felt tired yet wired, as if his body was still flooded with adrenaline and cortisol, even though it was now ten hours since his flight back from Estonia. He stroked his short, grey bristles. He needed a shave. And a decent night’s sleep.