Border Angels

by Anthony Quinn

  He made himself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table. He was worried that six months into his divorce, after months of self-control and enforced celibacy, some pressure in his psyche was beginning to show signs of eruption. The catalyst had been Lena, he realized. This woman with whom he had snatched only a few minutes of conversation, and whose brief touch had set alarm bells ringing deep within; this woman who had been accused of orchestrating a blackmail plot, and who might even have the blood of two men on her hands.

  There were certain people who slipped through the nets of society, he thought. Women like Lena. Women weighed down by disaster. No one wanted to know them. No one said good-bye to them. They were the people a detective should not sympathize too strongly with, because the danger was they could pull you down into the depths with them, and leave you with no way back to the surface.

  30

  In the early morning light, the ghost estate belonged to another dimen­sion; an unfinished, shadowy version of the happily populated estate depicted on the advertising billboards.

  In the ground-floor bedroom of number 62, Lena woke from a shallow sleep, thinking she had heard a cry, female and frightened, from one of the houses opposite—but it might have been just a dream. The sound of doors banging shut and keys turning in locks had haunted her mind all night.

  She climbed out of bed and got dressed, picking her way round an empty wine bottle and a glass. After checking that no one was watching, she stepped out the back door and into a field overgrown with brambles. There were no hedges or fences separating the houses. From the back door, she stepped directly into a thorny wilderness. In the weak sunshine, she recognized the tiny cream flowers filling the bushes as blackberry blossoms from the thickets that bordered her village back in Croatia. The weather in this country changed so frequently it left her unsure about the time of the year, but she knew it was not yet the season for picking blackberries. When that time came, she hoped to be back with her family in the forests of Velebit. That would be her goal, she decided, to climb the slopes of the mountains, free of fear, and crush the ripe fat berries with her bare feet. She would no longer be an exile from the season of berry picking.

  She caught a bus into town and spent the morning in the library. You could spend as much time as you liked there, as long as you were quiet. She scanned the local newspapers for stories of prostitution, smuggling, and fraud. She checked the court reports and police briefings to the press, but found herself wading through page after page of stories about motoring offenses committed by Eastern European drivers. She wondered if it was a policy of the papers to report every single crime and misdemeanor committed by a foreign national. She wondered how any reader would even venture out in a car. The news coverage gave the impression that the border roads were plagued with apocalyptic lawlessness.

  She tried to match the names of perpetrators and victims with the names of the trafficked women from the farmhouse brothel. It proved difficult since the journalists often spelled names incorrectly or confused surnames with first names. In addition, she kept coming across the names of famous characters from Croatian literature and history. She suspected that some of her compatriots had provided the police with false information.

  A male librarian took an interest in what she was doing. He helped her locate backdated issues and track court stories that had been heard in different jurisdictions. At one point, he leaned close to her and stared into her eyes. Then he let his gaze travel down the length of her body to the shiny leather of her boots. Though he was in his late thirties, his chin had only managed to sprout an unconvincing goatee of fine brown hair. The way in which he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose to frame his expressionless eyes triggered an unpleasant image in Lena’s memory.

  “Where have I seen you before?” he whispered.

  She sighed. Sometimes it was easier when people pretended she did not exist. She spoke clearly, breaking up the words with pauses, as though delivering an announcement to the entire library, which was filling up with pensioners, young mothers, and a few stray schoolchildren.

  “The last time we met,” she said, “I was in the prostitute business.”

  The librarian hurried away from her with such indecent haste he almost knocked over a shelf of hardbacks.

  She flicked through the newspapers for another hour, but there was no sign of the name she wanted to find, even though she was alert to all its misspellings. It was the name of a man responsible for a hundred crimes, but none of them had been reported. The man who had abused her soul more cruelly than the men who ravaged her body. The only clue to his presence was a story about a twenty-six-year-old Croatian woman charged with prostitution and released on bail paid by a cousin. Her name was Dinah. According to the report, the cousin had agreed to keep her at an address on Altmore Drive.

  Lena chose her time carefully. It was late evening when she slipped into the shadows of the bus shelter on Altmore Drive and waited for Dinah to show. It was important that she would have no advance warning of their encounter.

  Shortly after 11:00 p.m., a taxi pulled up at a house. Lena watched a woman struggle out of the vehicle, laden with plastic bags that clinked as she staggered along the pavement. It was Dinah, all right, a pale, dark-eyed version of the fresh-faced girl Lena remembered. It had only been a month since she had said good-bye to her in the farmhouse brothel, but the girl looked as though she had spent the intervening period living on the doorstep of an off-license.

  Lena slipped quietly into the house behind her. When Dinah saw the dark figure standing in the hall, her legs almost gave way. She bumped against furniture, unsure what to do. There was a strong whiff of alcohol from her breath. When she had gathered herself, she sat down on the sofa, slowly entwining her fingers with her scarf. The lid of her left eye was swollen, and an ugly bruise had mushroomed under her cheekbone.

  “Why are you here, Lena?” she asked, her voice squeezed in her throat.

  Lena didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen, made two cups of tea, and placed one beside Dinah. She resisted the impulse to reach out and stroke her swollen cheek. Her face was a raw lump of flesh that Lena wanted to shape back to its former beauty.

  “Why are you staring at me?” said Dinah.

  “No reason.”

  “The night you were to escape from the farmhouse, I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. I was so worried about you.”

  “So worried you told Sergei about my plans?”

  “It wasn’t me, Lena. I swear.” She was frantic in her denial, but her eyes darted about the room, as though there was an incriminating image in her head she was trying to avoid.

  Lena felt herself flush with anger.

  “What are you doing now?” she asked, keeping her tone even.

  “I’ve a job in a nightclub. The pay is good.”

  Lena watched as a silent shadow fell across Dinah’s exhausted face. Her eyes were empty.

  “It’s not too late for you, Lena,” she said, imploring. “You can still come back. Jozef will find work for you.” She seemed convinced that Lena would want to return to her old life.

  “I’d rather die than go back.”

  “But Jozef will find you if you don’t. He has people everywhere. He’s stronger than you. He’ll win in the end.”

  “What do you mean by win?”

  “He’ll kill you.” The features of her face grew loose with fear, as she tried to hold back the tears.

  “I have to go in a moment,” said Lena. “Do you remember the doll I gave you? There was a piece of paper inside it with a telephone number and the names of the others. I need it now.”

  “I have it somewhere.” Dinah got up and rummaged in a drawer. She handed Lena a crumpled sheet of paper.

  Finally, Lena had the information she needed to set her plan in motion. She placed it carefully in her handbag. Help was only a telephone number away. Her
head felt clear and bright, as though a dark cloud had suddenly dissolved. Staring at Dinah’s anxious face, she felt a little guilty at the feeling of elation rising in her chest.

  “Where’s Mikolajek now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  A look came over Dinah’s face as though she was suffering from an attack of cramp.

  “I’m sorry, I need a drink,” she mumbled and went into the kitchen. Lena waited for a moment and then followed her. She found her standing over the sink with a mobile phone pressed to her ear. She was muttering in Croatian. When she saw Lena, she gave a guilty start.

  “You have to run now, Lena,” she said, stuffing the phone into a bag. She looked weak and forlorn, unable to return Lena’s gaze.

  “Who did you call?” Lena took the phone from her.

  Dinah began to cry. “I had to tell Jozef. Otherwise he’d hurt me. He paid my bail. Without him, I’d be still in jail. He told me that himself.”

  Lena forgave her immediately. It wasn’t her fault that Mikolajek still held her in the grip of terror. She looked in the girl’s eyes and saw her past.

  “I can save you, Dinah, if you come with me now.”

  “I can’t. I have to work.” Her voice was dull.

  “You still have your life ahead of you. You have to choose whether you want to stay like this or take a risk and find your freedom.”

  Before Dinah could answer, the phone in Lena’s hand started to ring. She should have ignored it and made her exit. After all, she had everything to lose and nothing to gain, but she reasoned she had already set herself on the road that would take her back to Jozef Mikolajek. There was no turning now. She pressed the answer button.

  “Hello?” she said.

  The caller sighed. “Lena.”

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

  “Lena? I know you’re there. I hear you’re looking for me. What’s the matter? Need someone to help pack your suitcase?”

  “I have things to do,” she replied, prompted into speech by his sarcasm. “I’m not planning on leaving any time soon.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Lena. That’s your problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve watched women like you before. You’ve left the game and now you’re in the first flush of excitement. You think you’ve escaped to some sort of paradise, but the chances are that feeling won’t last. Have you thought of what you’re going to do for money? Do you fancy cleaning floors or working in a meat factory?”

  “I don’t need to work. Jack said he was leaving me money. Enough to set me up for life.”

  “The IRA bastard told you that?” Violence poked through his voice like a nasty cough.

  “He set up a bank account in my name. It was our contingency plan.”

  “Then why haven’t you taken the money and run?”

  “I need a passport to withdraw it. A form of ID. Jack was trying to get me one before he . . .”

  Mikolajek cut her off. “How much money is in this account?”

  “About £1 million.”

  He gave a low whistle and was silent. When he spoke again, his voice was tinged with sardonic respect.

  “What if I give you a passport?”

  “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

  “But let’s play if,” he persisted. “Here you are with a fortune at your fingertips but no way to access it. Here I am, falling over with enthusiasm to help you. You know I kept your old passport as a souvenir. It’s a bit dog-eared but I’m sure it will do.”

  “And what do you get out of this deal?” Lena knew that Mikolajek had no more intention of letting her take the money and disappear than he had of joining a flower-arranging class.

  “I’m just a plain businessman at heart. Give me a share of the money. Say fifty percent. It’s not as much as I took when you were working for me, but then you’re in a stronger bargaining position now.”

  Lena said nothing.

  “I’ll send a car round to collect you now. Before the banks close today, you’ll have your hands on your little nest egg.” She could hear the impatience rise in his voice.

  “You murdered Jack. Why should I trust you?”

  Mikolajek sneered. “It was suicide. The police will never prove other­wise. By the way, you know what his last request was that morning­? He wanted to listen to a piece of opera music. He said it reminded him of you. How pathetic was that?”

  “I never believed it.”

  “Believed what?”

  “That you were so full of evil. Otherwise, I never would have persuaded him to rescue me. I never would have risked myself. Or him.”

  “If you believe that, then why are you talking to me now?”

  “Because I’m not afraid. I’ve been through everything bad a woman my age can experience.”

  “What about death?”

  “I’m not afraid of that, either, but I have one thing left to do. And that is visit Jack’s grave to tell him I’ve avenged his murder. To do that I have to find you. I have to wait for you to make your move. And when you do, I promise to cling to you and drag you all the way down to the gates of hell.”

  31

  Daly sat in his car. During daylight, the street was drowned in traffic­ noises from the nearby bypass, but at night, the teeming sounds condensed­ into the hollow roar of single lorries speeding toward the ports. During the gaps in traffic, the street was claustrophobically quiet­. He parked in the same place every evening after work, about fifty­ yards from number 29, but not once did he see the front door open.

  A dog barked each time he rang the doorbell. Another disembodied sound mingling with the distant thunder of traffic. The animal gnashed his teeth as though it was about to burst through the locked door and spring for his throat. At other times, he heard furtive movements, but no one answered the door. A derelict sign hung above the letterbox. home sweet home cleaners, it read, but the place was a poor advertisement for a cleaning company. The walls were peeling of paint, and torn-up cardboard filled the front windows in place of blinds. Even the doorbell looked dingy and neglected.

  Daly had considered raiding the house, but what he really needed was a key to unlock the confidence of whoever dwelled within. Turning up on the fourth evening of his vigil, he saw that someone had smashed the front window. The next night, vandals had daubed “Go Home Scum” across the wall and spattered paint over the front door. The house resembled a target on a firing range for racists. When it got dark, a single streetlight came on. He wondered whether the others were broken or if the local council had stopped replacing bulbs as part of its spending cutbacks. It was cold and the darkness suited the house and the grim slogans. The street was blacked out, at war with itself. Little wonder that the door of number 29 never opened to unannounced visitors.

  Daly tried to ask questions of the neighbors. Only one woman could be bothered to talk to him without showing bare contempt for the inhabitants of the house. She told Daly that the women who lived there came and went in secret. A van with home sweet home cleaners­ painted on it collected them every morning before dawn. The driver made the women cover the windows with black bin bags. Then he packed the van with vacuum cleaners, detergents, and industrial­ cleaning machines.

  “Are they illegal immigrants?” the neighbor asked Daly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s supposed to be a cleaning company, but God knows what else goes on behind the closed doors of that house. Some of those women don’t come back till after midnight. I’ve seen them fall out of the van, exhausted to the bone. None of them speak English. What can you do? I mention it to my husband, but he says mind my own business.”

  Daly rang the house’s telephone number at least a dozen times. His tentative approach confirmed his suspicion that Martha
Havel did not lead a normal, ordinary life in which people wake up, go to work, eat, watch TV, and then go to bed again. A different girl with a foreign accent answered each time he called. Each conversation proved as fruitless as the last.

  “I want to speak to Martha Havel,” he would begin.

  “Martha’s not here. Who’s calling?”

  “Celcius Daly. I’m a detective. I’m trying to find Lena Novak. When will Martha be in?”

  “When she comes back.”

  “When’s that?”

  “Not sure. She comes and goes as she pleases.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Try later.”

  Eventually his persistence paid off. He rang late one evening, and a woman’s voice answered. She sounded older, in charge, but playful at the same time.

  “Are you a gentleman friend?” she asked immediately.

  “What’s a gentleman friend?”

  Her voice jingled with laughter. “The men who help pay the bills.”

  “What about Jack Fowler? Was he a gentleman friend?”

  There was a wary silence. Daly heard a spark of interest but also fear in her next question.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Celcius Daly.”

  “You’re the policeman looking for Lena.” Her voice was thoughtful.

  “That’s correct.”

  “This is Martha Havel.”

  “Look Martha, I know it’s difficult to trust a stranger, but I need to talk to you about Lena. She’s in danger.”

  “When can you come round?”

  Daly had to wait several minutes before Martha Havel opened the door. She was blond haired and in her early forties. She barely glanced at him before leading him down a narrow corridor. Her combination of figure-hugging denim, black boots, and a tight top struck Daly as the classic Eastern European style. All that was missing was the black plastic handbag anchored to the shoulder.