Border Angels
Page 20
The fusty dark barely revealed the cottage’s antiques, the Welsh dresser with its set of ancient crockery, a shelf of books, and the cast-iron stove. For the first time, he noticed the cobwebs that had gathered in the corners of the small windows.
She walked around the cramped room, inquisitive, brushing against the furniture, like a kitten with an arched back. She opened the door into the kitchen, took a peek, and then tried the bedroom door.
“Is there a toilet?” she asked, eventually. “I need a pee.”
When she returned, her face looked fresher; gone was the tiredness around her eyes.
“Why did you ring me?” asked Daly.
“I had a dream about you.”
“What sort of a dream?”
“You were standing on a shore, calling out to me. Then I woke up and heard the sound of a vehicle cruising through the estate. It was a black Jeep. I panicked and phoned you, even though I wasn’t planning to do so.”
“I’m glad you did.”
She sat down on a chair, her back still arched slightly.
“You should be worried,” she told him.
“Why?”
“Whenever men try to save me, they get hurt.” She crossed her arms in front of her and raised her chin slightly. He stared at the fine bones of her wrists. “When Jack visited the brothel, he was looking for some fun between the sheets, but then he met me. He thought he had netted something special, a woman that would excite him and make his life happier. He should have let me sink back to the bottom of the river.”
“How did Mikolajek find out about Jack and you?”
“Jack’s business empire was falling apart. He planned to do a runner to Spain or the United States, but we needed false passports. He was anxious not to alert any of his old associates, so we avoided the usual channels. He got in touch with a bunch of Romanians who specialized in false documents. They were meant to be useful and discreet. We met a man called Hedler. He was a pimp; I could tell right away. I think his instinct alerted him to something in me, as well. He took our photos, wrote down our details, and Jack paid him the money, about £4,000. Hedler winked at me while Jack’s back was turned and then he made an obscene gesture at him. The anger rose within me, and I spat at him. That was the closest I came to forgetting to play my part. He provoked me on purpose. We were meant to meet Hedler the following week and collect the passports, but instead he tipped off Mikolajek.”
She stared at Daly. “You probably disapprove of Jack. The type of man he was.”
“I disapprove of the way he died. Unless you can convince me you played no part in his death, I have to arrest you. Is that clear?”
She shrugged. “I can’t speak for the mental pressures he was under, but I’m no killer, nor a blackmailer.”
“But Fowler’s wife says you blackmailed him.”
“If that was true, you’d be my next victim. Besides, I already explained to you why I made that call.”
Her eyes bore into his, searching for any signs of doubt. It struck Daly that this was a skillful way to avoid the accusation. She sighed wearily. “If you used your imagination, you would realize that I didn’t need to blackmail or kill Jack Fowler to get money from him. What else did I have to gain? A return to the life of a prostitute?”
“I have to know more,” he said.
She raised her face toward him and gave him a steady look. Daly got the impression that a hidden part of her was maneuvering out of the dark.
“If you are ready for it, I shall give you something very special,” she said. “Something made from sweat and tears, something that I have given to no one else. My story. It is my gift to you.”
“I’m listening.”
She proceeded to recount her life in Croatia, and how she had been kidnapped by Mikolajek. She talked for an hour. From time to time, he interrupted her, guiding her into areas where she showed uneasiness. Sometimes he noticed she would grow voluble, especially when talking about the other trafficked women and their homes, and then she would suddenly stop as if overcome by nostalgia or something sadder.
She told him how Jack Fowler had helped her escape from the farmhouse brothel. He had set up an accident on the road to divert the attention of the pimp Sergei Kriich. The plan, however, had backfired when Kriich crashed his car.
“Mikolajek left something for me that night.”
“What?”
“A message. A warning.”
“How?”
“In the form of Sergei’s body, or whatever was left of him.”
Daly fell silent.
“It was Mikolajek’s way of showing how ruthless he was. He wanted to show he wasn’t prepared to forgive even a mistake like the one Sergei had made in letting me escape. How would he then respond to my betrayal?”
Afterward, she sat at the table opposite Daly and looked at him, as though expecting him to ask more questions or set out rules. Darkness thickened in the windows. Shadows from the dying turf fire stretched across the flagstone floor. He went outside to the shed to gather more turf. When he returned, he found her in the hall, going through the contents of his jacket pockets. He assumed that this came from her instinctive distrust of men, but he still felt a sense of unease. What other parts of his life was she going to rifle through?
“I wanted to know how much cash you had,” she explained.
“Are you planning to rob me?” A note of anger crept into his voice.
It was then that she explained her plan to him.
“I think it’s crazy and dangerous,” he said after listening carefully.
“If you think that, then arrest me, now, before I take your money and run.”
He felt a rush of resentment as he stared at her. She was calling the shots. He no longer had any way of influencing events, but, then, had that not been the case all along? The investigation had always been dependent on her accidental appearances, the only breakthroughs at her bidding. She stared back at him. The tension within him weakened. He looked at the ground and then up at her watchful face. It struck him there were worse ways of spending an evening than simmering in uncertainty under the attentive eyes of Lena Novak.
He walked over to the fire and dropped some turf onto the dying embers. He sat down and thought. He grasped for a different solution to the one she was proposing. He was reluctant to formally arrest her or report her as an illegal immigrant. That might create a trail for her pursuers to follow. There was also a serious risk that if she got bail, she would abscond and disappear forever. Besides, he had already compromised himself. There were enough irregularities in his pursuit of Lena to prompt a disciplinary investigation. No. His only way out was to trust her and go after the bad guys. And then, afterward, hope that she would quietly disappear and return to her homeland.
“I don’t want you to lose your job,” she said. “It would be better if I did this alone, rather than put you in danger. I will call you when I’m ready.”
“I have to think more about this,” he said, getting up to leave.
When he returned, she had taken off her boots and was sitting by the fire. She looked up. “You’re worried,” she said. “I don’t blame you. You’re risking a lot.” He nodded, perching himself on the edge of the sofa.
“We could find ourselves in a lot of danger.”
“Yes.”
He said nothing of what was worrying him the most, this wayward impulse of his to follow her along the dark passage of her life, to yoke her destiny with his.
“My head is telling me we should drop the plan,” he said.
“But does your heart want to?”
“No.”
He had already made his decision. It was based less on self-preservation than the simple desire to not let her out of his sight for more than a minute. That seemed more important than any dull strategy to save his career.
He made up a bed for her in the bedroom. Before he closed the door, she thanked him.
“For what?”
“I had forgotten what it was like to be alone with a man and not have to sleep with him,” she said.
That night as he lay in bed, the image of her body curled up by the fire gouged a hole in his sleep. After an hour had passed, he got up to go to the toilet. He stood outside her door, which was slightly opened. He listened to the sound of the rain outside intermingling with her breathing. The burden of his thoughts weighed heavily upon his shoulders as he walked back to bed. It was almost dawn before he slipped into a dreamless sleep.
39
Daly awoke on Monday morning to find the wet imprint of her bare feet fading on the floor of his bedroom. He got up with a start and dressed hurriedly. He wondered if she had been standing at his bedside, peering at him while he slept. He followed the footprints into the living room and out through the opened front door. She was sitting on a wooden seat overlooking the wild garden, combing her wet hair. She’d had a shower and pulled on an old jumper of his.
“You woke me earlier,” she said.
Daly looked startled.
“You were grinding your teeth in your sleep.” She smiled. “I thought a monster was crushing bones in your bedroom.”
“My ex-wife complained that I gnashed at night like a brute.”
“You know what that tells me?”
“What?”
“Something inside you is fighting to be heard. Something that won’t be tamed.”
“Then it’s better kept at bay.”
After breakfast, Daly got ready for work. He told Lena that her best strategy was to stay in the cottage, out of sight, and wait for his return. He traveled by taxi to the police station. Through the security gates, the first thing he saw was his car parked in the space reserved for impounded vehicles. He was relieved his colleagues had managed to retrieve it before vandals could take it apart.
Inside the station, he caught a glimpse of Commander Boyd coming down a flight of stairs. He slipped down a corridor to avoid him. A short while later he was about to open a glass door when he saw the commander approach. A look of intent emboldened Boyd’s features when he recognized Daly. Again, he tried to make himself scarce within the station’s labyrinth of corridors and interview rooms, but Boyd kept reappearing like the resolute anchor of a tug-of-war team, pulling in the competition. They bumped into each other outside the canteen.
“Your car was found in a housing estate last night with the keys in the ignition,” Boyd told Daly. “We got a report of a man matching your description entering a number of unsecured properties. What the hell is going on?”
“I had a breakdown while house-hunting, sir.”
Boyd shook his head in exasperation.
“I hope you’re not still searching for this missing prostitute.”
“She’s the key to arresting Mikolajek. I intend to find her.”
“She’s toying with you. There’s more going on in your head than a policeman pursuing a witness. Of course, I’m not a psychologist.” He eyed Daly evenly.
“I’m glad you aren’t.” Daly’s reply made him glare.
“You’ve been acting strangely all week, Daly. Not saying a word to colleagues. Wearing that hangdog look. Coming late to meetings and ignoring paperwork deadlines. I’ve yet to see your report on how the investigation is proceeding to date.”
Daly said nothing. It struck him that if Boyd had any talent of note, it was his ability to take over an investigation and shuffle everyone off to meaningless paperwork.
“What’s the matter with you, Inspector?” Boyd examined Daly’s face closely. A look of suspicion formed on his face. “Has she left you?”
Daly flinched. “Who, sir?”
“Whoever she is. I’ve a teenage son who wears the same expression on his face most weekends. No woman is worth moping over.”
Daly nodded. “I’ll hand you the report when it’s ready.”
In his office, Daly rang Armagh Properties, the company advertised as the sellers of number 68, Foxborough Mews. He asked the estate agent who else had a key for the property. The answer did not surprise him. Michael Mooney was acting as an unofficial warden for it and a number of other houses in the estate.
At lunchtime, Daly drove to the bank. He had no idea how much he had in his savings account, and he had to ask the cashier for the figure. His separation from Anna had thrown his financial affairs into complete disarray.
“Five thousand and fifty-seven pounds and eighty-four pence,” the teller told him.
“I want to withdraw it. Every penny.”
He was asked for further documents and proof of identification. Daly watched the cashier count the money twice, then stuffed the wad into his wallet, next to the photo he still carried of Lena. The money would be enough to put the first stage of their plan into action.
Afterward, he followed the directions Lena had given him to a nondescript pub on the south side of the town. He sat in his car for a while, wondering whether he was making a mistake, launching himself on this path of criminality. However, he convinced himself that it was already too late. He had traveled too far down this path to turn back now.
Every Monday afternoon, Daniel Hedler set up camp in a corner of the pub. There were plenty of business opportunities in the sale of counterfeit documents, especially passports and driving licenses, in this part of town, and the pub was a suitably anonymous office in which to conduct his trade. He was careful and well organized in his business, and his henchmen were positioned throughout the bar if a deal needed a little more muscle to help clinch it.
As soon as Daly entered the bar, Hedler could tell he was a man in free fall. Not the slow-motion plummet of the afternoon men lounging throughout the pub, scuffing their heels, staring at the horse racing on TV, sipping their interminable pints. No, this one’s descent was more precipitous. This one had not turned up for the company or the beer, Hedler was sure of that.
When Daly asked at the bar for Hedler, he was introduced to a meticulously shaved and groomed middle-aged man sitting in a corner with a newspaper. Daly sat down and told him he wanted two passports for himself and a female friend. He explained that it was an emergency and that he had the money ready. He adopted a blunt and hasty tone.
Hedler stared keenly at Daly, his pupils glistening, feeding eyes taking in its prey. He glanced down at the detective’s photograph and the details of his new identity, and then back at Daly, subtracting one version of him from the other.
“What did you say your line of business was?”
“I didn’t.” Daly stared evenly at him. “At the moment, you could say I’m hiding from business. You know the story. Investments gone wrong, the banks chasing me, hunting down all my assets. I just want to get some breathing space for a while. For me and my girlfriend.”
Hedler’s facial muscles contorted with curiosity. “You don’t strike me as a typical customer. The ones with criminal identities. Those people are very problematic.”
He leaned back and examined Daly’s details at greater ease. Then he lifted Lena’s photo. He did not say anything for a long time, just scrutinized her picture, as if measuring millimeter by millimeter the dimensions of her face.
“I can’t give you what you want,” he said eventually. “Until I see her in the flesh.”
“Why?”
“For reasons that would take too long to explain.” His voice was arrogant. It had the abruptness of someone who spent most of his time talking to people who wanted to disappear, ghosts moving from border to border. It was devoid of all human warmth. “She’s a very pretty woman. How long have you known her?”
Daly made an effort to smile. All the time, he was taking mental notes of the Romanian, their surroundings, the other people in the bar.
“Not long enough.”
“It’s good advice. With women you never know.”
Hedler pulled on his coat, lifting the collar around his neck. Daly took this to mean their conversation was over.
“Don’t worry,” said Hedler. “I will help you. I will give you what you want. A new name, a new start. You and this girl of yours. Four thousand pounds for two perfect fake passports. Then you’ll have a means to escape yourselves. Come back tomorrow, to this bar. The both of you. OK?”
“Just have them ready.”
Daly made his way through the outskirts of Armagh and into the wild border countryside. The overgrown hedgerows were full of spring flowers swaying in the breezes. The sky held the promise of a beautiful spring afternoon, but by the time he pulled up at Foxborough Mews, the sun had retreated into an eddy of dark clouds and the wind had begun to bluster.
Hawthorn blossoms swirled about his feet as he stepped out of the car. He was alone in the estate, with the echo of the wind among the thorn trees that had colonized the waste ground. Paradise cursed, thought Daly as he scanned the lonely-looking houses.
He called at number 68, but the doors were locked. He checked the windows, but there was no sign of anyone. A hollow silence pervaded the buildings. Daly’s mind was a blank. He was surrounded by shut doors and vacant windows, a bricks-and-mortar pact of silence. How could he interpret emptiness? What clues were there to decipher when the victims had vanished?
He stumbled on a loose piece of rubble and grunted. A door banged shut in the direction of Mooney’s house. He approached the former terrorist’s home, hearing only the sounds of his footsteps echoing in the estate. His eyes caught a movement at one of the windows. The bowed figure of Michael Mooney stood close to the glass. He was staring out at the estate like a man at the center of a derailed train surveying the wreckage.
Daly rang the bell, but there was no answer. He pounded the door and waited.
Mooney eventually opened the door. He nodded when he saw Daly and beckoned him into a dimly lit hall. His scarred features looked even more like a mask than Daly remembered.