by Tania Carver
She sat at her desk, booted up her computer. Mickey was beside her. After Milhouse’s call, they had decided to go back to the station to check through records.
Walking into the building alongside Mickey, Anni had felt that those few people there were all staring at them. They know, she was thinking, they know what we’ve done. That we’re now lovers. And they’re judging us for it. Through the main door, down the corridor, into the MIS office. Feeling eyes, seen and unseen, staring at her. She had glanced at Mickey a few times, just to see if he was feeling the same thing. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at her.
Yep, she thought. He’s feeling the same thing.
In the MIS office, at her desk, she had reverted to police officer mode. And now she was engrossed in what was appearing on her screen.
‘Graham Watts,’ she said.
Mickey scooted his chair across, sat next to her, looked at the screen. She was aware of his arm brushing against hers, his thigh. She could feel the heat from his body. More intoxicating than cannabis.
Mickey kept staring at the screen, not looking at her.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Worked for the Sloanes.’ She peered closer. ‘High up too. Very high. Trusted lieutenant, the works. Started as a gangmaster on the farm, worked his way up. When they diversified into industrial farming, he got promoted. And then … Oh. They let him go. Cut him off, apparently, just like that. That’s when the law became involved.’
‘How?’ asked Mickey, turning to look at her.
‘Cautioned for threatening behaviour. Says here they owed him money. Lots of it. Cut him off without a pension. He tried to talk to them about it, then said he was going to expose them. That was the word he used, expose. The Sloanes said he had nothing on them, that he threatened them, made up a lot of lies. Tried to attack them, got a bit handy.’
Mickey read the next few lines on her screen. ‘They never pressed charges. Just let it go. And he never exposed anything.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘You know what that means.’
Anni nodded. ‘He may not have got his pension, but they gave him enough to keep him quiet.’
‘Exactly. Maybe they didn’t pay him enough to keep him quiet for long.’
‘You think that’s what this is?’ she asked, turning to him. ‘Extortion? Blackmail gone wrong?’
‘Could be. Maybe he ran out of money. Came back for more.’
‘And you think, what, that the Sloanes had him killed?’
‘Worth bearing in mind.’
They kept looking at each other. Anni saw a gleam in Mickey’s eye, a slight upward pull at the sides of his mouth. He moved in closer to her.
‘Stop it … ’
‘Haven’t done anything.’
‘And you’re not going to. We’ve got work to do.’
They went back to the screen.
‘The Sloanes,’ said Mickey. ‘Brother and sister. Bloodbath house of death, and all that.’
‘That’s them.’
He tapped some keys, brought up a different screen. ‘Yeah. Thought so. They were left for dead when their adopted brother went mental with a shotgun. He killed the rest of the family, including his own mother. Stuart Sloane, that was his name.’
Anni frowned. ‘Stuart Sloane … ’
Mickey peered closer. ‘And here’s something else. Guess who the first person was to find Stuart Sloane with the shotgun?’
‘No idea.’
‘Graham Watts.’
Anni looked at him. ‘Interesting. When was this?’
‘Sixteen, seventeen years ago.’
She turned back to her screen. ‘Stuart Sloane was released on Friday. He never made it to the hostel. Disappeared.’
‘And now Graham Watts is dead.’
Anni shrugged. ‘Coincidence?’
‘Dunno.’ Mickey sat back, thinking. ‘There’s something else. Wait … Didn’t … ’ He frowned in concentration. ‘Wasn’t there some connection with them in that murder case Jessie James was looking into?’
Anni smiled. ‘Just can’t take her seriously with that name.’
‘That guy she went to question. Turned up dead. He had some connection with the Sloanes, I think.’
Mickey’s phone rang. He checked the display. ‘Franks,’ he said. He picked up.
Anni watched him as his eyes widened.
‘Is she OK?’
She knew immediately who he was talking about, and gestured for him to put the phone on loudspeaker, but he was concentrating too intently on what Franks was saying. She moved closer and tried to follow the conversation, but it was too one-sided, so she settled for waiting until it had finished.
Eventually Mickey hung up. Anni looked at him expectantly. ‘Well?’
‘Marina called. She’s alive and well. He’s going to meet her tonight.’
Questions tumbled through Anni’s mind, one fast on the heels of another.
‘That’s all I know,’ Mickey said, pre-empting what she was about to say next. ‘All he could tell me.’
‘So are we on for tonight too, whatever it is?’
‘No, we’re not.’ Mickey sounded disappointed. ‘I told him we were turning up connections in the murder of Graham Watts and the Suffolk murder. He wants us to keep working that. Apparently our presence might cause a distraction.’ Mickey’s intonation made it clear what he thought about that.
‘Is that so?’
‘We’re too closely associated with Marina.’
‘So we’re good enough to look for her but not good enough to bring her in.’
‘Apparently.’
‘So we just stay here. Keep on keeping on.’
‘Yeah.’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘I’m glad she’s OK, though.’
‘Hope she’s looked after my car.’ Anni looked again at the screen. ‘And we’ve got plenty to be going on with. We’ll be here for a while, I think.’
‘We will.’
She looked round. The office was empty apart from them. She turned back to him, a glint in her eye this time. ‘You ever wanted to have me here, on my desk?’
Mickey’s mouth dropped open. Words seem to form but failed to escape.
Anni giggled, pushed her leg nearer to his. ‘Have I shocked you?’
Mickey swallowed, blinked. Twice. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘Not shocked.’
‘What then?’
The glint reappeared in his eye.
‘Just amazed that you can read my mind … ’
75
Marina had never experienced anything like it.
The barn was huge, modern and functional. Metal sheets clad to a concrete skeleton. Concrete floor. It had been cleared of its day-to-day use with bales of hay pushed to the walls alongside farming machinery, but it couldn’t shake off the farm smell: animal waste, nitrates. Marina was sure it never would. That smell had permeated into the foundations. But it was about to be joined by other, more pungent smells. Sweat. Blood. Money.
She had returned to Sandro’s house and told him the news about Phil. Sandro hugged her, somewhat awkwardly. She knew that wasn’t the kind of thing he was comfortable with but was pleased he had done it. Because that gesture of affection made her, for the first time in her life, feel an abiding love for him. And she was sure he knew it.
And that in turn made her feel guilty about the phone call she had made to Franks. But she would deal with that later, as Sandro had to prepare for the fight and she had to ready herself too. She was going to get her daughter back. No matter what it took.
Sandro emerged from the bathroom, his gym bag over his shoulder, all tracked and hoodied up. She tried to talk to him but he barely responded. She checked his eyes. Her brother wasn’t there any more. In his place was another person. Harder, colder, angrier. A fighter. Marina had flinched. She had looked in her brother’s eyes and glimpsed their father.
They had taken Sandro’s near-dead and rusted-out Mondeo, as she didn’t want to be spotted in Anni’s car. They had driven in near silence
. Next to each other but inhabiting different worlds. Both focused on what they had to do in the next few hours.
Turning off the main road and driving up to the farm, Marina had been amazed. They had had to join a long queue of cars to get in. She had expected them all to be like Sandro’s — junkers and clunkers, all tattered and falling apart. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Although there were a fair few cars like that, there were also plenty top-of-the-range numbers, BMWs, Mercs, some Lexus models, dotted about.
There was also security on the gate. Stringent, serious. Big guys who looked like they could double for the night’s entertainment took money and gave directions. Sandro didn’t pay. He was just given a nod of recognition, directed to a field that had been turned into a car park. There, as in the queue to get in, status symbols rubbed bumpers with working Land Rovers, pristine 4x4s, Transits and rust buckets. It was, Marina was amazed to discover, one of the most truly democratic gatherings she had ever been to. All united in their wish to watch two people beat each other up.
Marina followed Sandro to the barn. When they reached the entrance, he stopped, turned to her.
‘Time to part company for a bit, kid.’
Marina looked round. She didn’t welcome the idea of being left alone in this environment. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Got to get ready.’ He held up his fists. ‘Got to prepare.’
‘Right. Of course. Good luck.’ She kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled. ‘Jesus Christ, woman, you’ll be gettin’ me a reputation for being soft.’
She smiled in return, then quickly scanned the entering crowd.
‘They’ll be here. Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘And you know where I’ll be when you need me.’ He walked away. Turned. ‘I’m third on the card, remember.’
Marina watched as Sandro walked towards a group of men just inside the door. An older man stood in the centre of the gathering, the men around him bodyguards or acolytes. He was middle-aged, well dressed. His corpulent figure and red and pink features made him look like a huge boiled pig. Marina recognised him. Milton Picking, one of the biggest gangsters in the region.
Is that who Sandro owes money to? she wondered. Is that who he’s fighting for? Oh baby brother, what have you got yourself involved in?
Sandro was greeted by Picking, then taken away by his followers. Marina took a deep breath, another. Stepped inside.
76
Inside the barn, a fight was just about to start. The centre of the building had been cleared and straw strewn on the concrete floor. Marina was confused by that, thinking at first that straw wasn’t sturdy or thick enough to absorb an impact and make for a sprung base on which to fight. Then she realised what it was for, and with that realisation came a small wave of nausea: it was there to mop up the blood.
A rope had been placed round the centre, marking out the ring. The bales of hay stacked on all sides almost to the ceiling acted as tiered seating. Wooden benches made up the first few rows. Trestle tables served as a bar. It was crowded.
She looked round at the crowd. Like the vehicles outside, it reflected the same patchwork make-up of different types. She recognised the travellers straight away. Jeans and polo shirts; they all looked like they could handle themselves and would be happy for a turn in the ring. There were also plenty of women with them, young, blonde and orange, dressed like sexualised Barbie dolls. And children, the boys mini-mes of their fathers. Dressed the same, running round shrieking, doing their own bare-knuckle sparring in the corners.
There were other types. Men with Marbella tans and expensively tasteless clothes, chunky gold jewellery and reset noses. On their arms Chigwell-opulent trophy wives and mistresses.
And everyone in between. The career gamblers and born losers. The nine-to-fivers seeking a thrill. The curious. Those claiming it as research. All there with one thing in common: they enjoyed watching other people get hurt.
Marina checked her phone. Nothing. The place was noisy, so she kept it in her hand. An announcement was made: the first fight was about to start. She sat down on one of the benches, looking round all the time, scanning the crowd for Josephina. She couldn’t see her.
The first two fighters were brought out. They were teenagers, boys. Both had the hard bodies and wild eyes of travellers. They were led into the ring and she saw immediately that even if they weren’t making money from it, they would still be doing it for fun.
All around, the crowd were on their feet, baying and calling, the excitement palpable, the air thick with sweat and bloodlust. She saw money change hands as odds were made and bets taken. She watched as the two boys squared up to each other, fists in front of their faces, ready.
The referee looked like he could have just walked in from the crowd. He spoke with the familiar Irish-Essex traveller twang, implored the two fighters to make it a good clean fight. They both nodded, eyes fixed on the other. He went on to remind them that one clean hit was worth ten dirty ones, but it was clear they weren’t listening to him. They were both ready to hurt.
The bell went. They danced round each other as the crowd shouted encouragement. Marina was suddenly surrounded by baying red faces. The boys became braver, started fighting. Fists were flung, blows placed. Marina heard the flat slap of knuckle on skin, like a butcher tenderising a side of pork. Felt the blows as they landed.
The larger boy had the footwork. He seemed able to dance out of his opponent’s way, deflect shots intended to damage one part of his anatomy to another, less painful one. This just infuriated the smaller one. He began to throw out shots faster, harder. Wilder. One connected with the bigger boy’s ear and he fell to the ground, cracking his head on the concrete.
That was it, thought Marina, the fight would be stopped.
But it wasn’t. The fallen boy put his hand to his ear, cried out in pain and anger. The referee was holding back the smaller boy, who was mad-eyed with rage, dancing about, trying to get at his opponent.
The bigger boy climbed back to his feet, blood trickling from his ear. Marina wasn’t an expert, but she thought that could be dangerous. The referee thought differently, however, and, after consultation with the fighter, allowed the bout to proceed.
The smaller boy had seen his advantage. His own bloodlust was high. He pressed forward. The bigger one stood his ground, tried to fight off the blows, but Marina, and the rest of the crowd, could see it was just a matter of time. The smaller one kept hitting. One blow connected with his opponent’s nose. Marina heard bone and cartilage shatter. She closed her eyes. The crowd cheered. The small boy jumped out of the way as blood fountained out. He skipped to the side, threw a punch against the damaged ear. The other boy went down. Didn’t get back on his feet this time.
The fight was over, the smaller boy declared the winner. He was jumping up and down, dancing while still in the ring, face a mask of his own and his opponent’s blood, looking like the fight was just a prelude, ready to take on anyone, everyone.
He was led away.
The crowd’s bloodlust temporarily sated, the noise in the barn dampened down to an excited hubbub. More money changed hands as bets were called in and placed for the next bout. Marina, still sitting by herself, felt physically ill.
She checked the phone in her hand. No call.
She looked back at the ring, at the blood on the straw. Couldn’t believe her own brother was going to be in there soon. Couldn’t believe she was here to watch him.
Fresh straw was thrown over the bloodied straw. She looked round once more. Still no sigh of Josephina. She couldn’t even see Sandro. She waited.
The next fight was announced and two more fighters were brought into the ring. The same procedure as before started. Marina wasn’t sure she could watch it all again.
She didn’t have to.
Love Will Tear Us Apart.
She grabbed the phone, put it straight to her ear. Turned away from the action.
‘Where is she?’ she shouted. ‘Where’s my daughter?’
The voice on the phone sucked in air. ‘Well played.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘You must think you’re so clever. Arranging to meet here. Thinking that you’d be safe amongst all these people. That you’d be able to snatch your daughter and make a run for it. Not agree to your part of the arrangement. Am I right?’
‘Where is she? Where’s my daughter?’ Marina was screaming now. No one could hear her above the baying crowd.
The voice gave no reply.
‘Where is she?’
‘Look.’
‘Where?’
‘At the back of the hall. Right at the back. Behind you.’
Marina turned. The crowd were on their collective feet, shouting and screaming and fist-pumping. Marina tried to look through them, look past them. The bales of hay had a gap between them, making a narrow passageway. It was in almost virtual darkness, but she concentrated, managed to separate the shadows. She made out a figure. A small figure. Her heart almost pounded its way out of her chest.
‘Josephina … ’
She started to run towards her, pushing, fighting her way through the crowd.
‘Not just yet,’ said the voice on the phone. ‘Stay where you are.’
Confused and apprehensive, she stopped running.
‘Look. Look again at your little girl. What else can you see?’
Marina looked. And saw a flash of light in the darkness, glinting from something metallic.
A gun.
Pointed at her daughter’s head.
77
Helen Hibbert pulled her coat closer to her neck. She didn’t think it would make much difference, but she felt like it was doing something positive to keep out the cold, damp and fog.
She had reached Harwich with plenty of time to spare, constantly checking her mirror in case those two coppers were following her. She hadn’t seen them or noticed any car that gave any indication of following. Although since her knowledge of that came exclusively from Hollywood movies, she wasn’t entirely sure.
