Torment

by David Evans

  “Thanks, I’ll wait till he arrives to brief the team.”

  Instead of going down to the interview room with Szymanski, Strong went back to his office to check on any messages. DCS Flynn had left a memo on his desk giving details of the murder team allocated to the schoolgirls’ enquiry and inviting him to a briefing in Pontefract where they were setting up the incident room.

  Just then, Darby knocked and addressed his boss from the doorway. “Guv, I’ve got a Jim Marshall downstairs. He’s a bus driver in Leeds. He’s only just heard we were enquiring into the missing Albanian girl.”

  “Come in a minute, John.”

  Darby took a couple of steps into the room. “Apparently he’s been away in Lanzarote on holiday. He recognised the photo in their canteen and one of the other drivers told him about the reports in the papers yesterday.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Front interview room.”

  Strong rose and made for the door. “Okay, let’s see what he’s got to tell us.”

  Jim Marshall appeared to be in his mid-thirties, deeply tanned with a buzzed head, dressed in a white tee shirt, jeans, trainers and a denim jacket. He was nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  “Jim,” Darby said, “this is DCI Strong, the senior investigating officer in charge of the Helena Cryanovic murder case.”

  “Mr Marshall,” Strong said, “thanks for coming in. I understand you may have some information that might help us?”

  The detectives sat down opposite the driver.

  “Well I didn’t know till I got back.” Marshall began, looking from Darby to Strong. “I’ve been away you see, ten days in Lanzarote. Bloody hot. Anyway, it’s first day back, early shift, and I spotted your poster on the canteen wall. And I thought, I recognise that face. Pretty girl, foreign accent. And then I find out she’s dead, murdered. So I thought it best to come in after I finished work.”

  Strong nodded and flipped open his notebook. “What can you tell us?”

  “Well, I’ve seen her. Maybe two or three times, on my bus.”

  “When did you last see her, Mr Marshall?”

  “It was that last night, Thursday, 1st September. We flew out next day on the 2nd. I was on the 49 to Monkswood Gate. She boarded on The Headrow.”

  “What time was that?”

  The driver thought for a moment. “It must have been about half six,” he said.

  Strong made a note. “And how was she dressed?”

  Marshall finished his coffee before replying, “Black short jacket, jeans and trainers, I think.”

  Strong moved in his chair to avoid anyone noticing him shudder. The image of Helena in the boot of the car in Felixstowe flashed into his memory once again. She was dressed as the bus driver had just described. He struggled to shift the recollection of her head, as if shrink-wrapped in that clear plastic bag. “Where did she get off?”

  “It was up the top end of Harehills Road, just before the lights where we join Roundhay Road.”

  Strong turned to Darby. “Have you got a Leeds street map there, John?”

  Darby stood up. “I’ll get one,” he said and left the room.

  “I appreciate you coming in, Mr Marshall.”

  Marshall nodded.

  “Tell me, was there no CCTV on your bus that night?”

  “There was a fault. On that vehicle it hadn’t been working all week. I’m not sure if it’s been repaired yet.”

  “Must have been a worry on the late night services for you, not that CCTV in itself is a deterrent.”

  “You’d be surprised how many of them don’t work. I suppose the fact that the cameras are there is deterrent enough. It’s the same with speed cameras. I mean you tell me, but they reckon not all of them work. The fact you don’t know which ones mean you slow for them all.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  Darby returned, clutching a gazetteer. “Ah, thanks, John.”

  He opened the street plan at the appropriate pages and placed it on the table in front of his boss.

  Strong traced Harehills Road with his finger and followed it up to the junction with Roundhay Road. “So she got off here?” he asked.

  “That’s right. The stop’s about a hundred yards before the lights.”

  “And that would have been, what, around a quarter to or ten to seven?”

  “About that, yes,” the driver agreed.

  “Was she the only one to get off there?”

  “Er, no, I think there was an old woman with one of those shopping bags on wheels and a couple of young lads.”

  “Don’t suppose you saw where she went?”

  “I had one man get on and by the time I took his fare and began to set off, when I checked my mirror, she’d gone behind the bus and crossed the road.”

  “One last thing,” Strong said, “you said you’d seen her two or three times.”

  The driver nodded. “That’s right, yeah.”

  “Always on this same route?”

  “Yep, gets on on The Headrow and gets off where she did on Thursday.”

  Strong closed his notebook and the gazetteer before getting to his feet. “Well thanks very much for your help, Mr Marshall. DC Darby here will take a formal statement from you. You’ve been most helpful.”

  When he left the room, his mobile rang again. This time, Souter’s name came up.

  “Look mate,” he said, “I’m a bit busy at the moment. Is it quick?”

  “Sorry, Col,” his friend said, “just wondering if you fancy a pint tonight. Bit of a catch up. There’s a couple of things I wanted to run by you.”

  Strong blew out his cheeks and checked his watch. “I might need one after today. I’m not sure how the rest of it’ll pan out yet. Can I give you a call later?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Where were you thinking of?”

  “How about The Redoubt at the end of Westgate?”

  “Martin Grady’s place?”

  “That’s right. He keeps a decent pint and it’s on your way home.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  Finally, when Strong returned to his office he found Kelly Stainmore waiting.

  “Ah, Kelly,” he said, “anything interesting at the house.”

  “You could say that, guv. I’ve just done a PNC on a suspicious Mondeo with two blokes taking photos of us and guess what?”

  “Vice.”

  “They’ve spoken to you?”

  “Vince Denholme is on his way to join us for a briefing.” He checked his watch again. “Should be here anytime. They’ve had the house under surveillance for a few days. What have you done with the girl?”

  “Interview Room downstairs. Seems we’re running out of space. I’ve got a female constable sitting in with her but I don’t want to leave her too long. I think she’s trusting me.”

  “That’s good. But before you talk to her again, I think Vince might have something interesting to say when he arrives.” He opened the street map where Jim Marshall had told him Helena had stepped off the bus. “Now, exactly where is this house?” he asked.

  Stainmore leaned forward in her seat and studied the map. “Here,” she said, pointing a finger, “Luxor Grove, number fifty-seven.”

  Strong smiled grimly. “So if I tell you Helena got off the number forty-nine bus here around six-fifty on Thursday evening, 1st September, last seen crossing the road, where do you think she was heading?”

  Stainmore nodded. “Plus, Lyudmyla tells me she was expecting her that evening but Szymanski changed their night off and sent them off to do a shift in Sensations.”

  He was thoughtful for a few seconds. “How did the house look?”

  Stainmore described what she’d seen inside the girls’ accommodation, including the locked ground floor room where Lyudmyla stated that special parties took place. She also mentioned the mystery room in the basement.

  “Right,” Strong said, “I’m going to see Flynn. We need a warrant and get SOCO round there. All the evide
nce points to Helena heading for Luxor Grove and never seen since. Round up the troops for …” He checked his watch once more, “fifteen minutes. Vince should be here by then.”

  48

  The CID room was buzzing when Strong and DS Denholme walked in. Kelly Stainmore, Luke Ormerod and John Darby were relating the events of the afternoon to Jim Ryan, Sam Kirkland, Trevor Newell and Malcolm Atkinson. Ormerod was regaling the others on Darby’s assertion that it was the first time he’d been in a massage parlour.

  “It’s true,” he protested, adjusting his crotch and drawing more laughter from his colleagues.

  “Okay, everybody, listen up,” Strong announced. “We’ve got some work to do now.”

  The conversations quickly died and attention focused on the latest arrivals.

  “For those of you who don’t know, this is DS Vince Denholme.” Strong held out an arm indicating the new man. “DS Denholme is from the Vice Squad and here to liaise and give us the benefit of his knowledge.”

  Strong turned to the whiteboard behind him with various photos stuck to it. Writing and lines in felt-tip pen connected text boxes and some of the pictures. “Helena Cryanovic,” he began, pointing to her photo on the board, “last seen, as we now know, getting off the number 49 bus on Harehills Road, near the junction with Luxor Grove, on Thursday 1st September at approximately 6:50pm. Her body was found last Monday in the boot of a stolen Mercedes SLK 230 Sports Coupe which was in a container at Felixstowe Docks. Estimated time of death, Kelly?”

  Before Stainmore could respond, DS Ryan interrupted, “Sorry, Kelly, I took a call for you this afternoon. The pathologist in Ipswich had results from the tests he was running and he’s refined his estimate to between Thursday and Saturday which would be between the first and third of September.”

  Strong wrote a note on the board. “That’s good, so now we’ve got a smaller window to work with. The Merc was stolen from an address in Crigglestone on Friday evening, that’s the second of September. We know this car was in the barn at Meadow Woods Farm on Saturday the third because it was seen by Susan Brown and it had been stolen by Gary Baker and Steve Chapman – current whereabouts unknown. Any news on that anyone?”

  A few mumbled responses of, ‘No, guv,’ greeted this request.

  Strong gave a frustrated sigh. “Moving on, we know Helena was involved with this man, Stefan Szymanski.” He pointed to a photograph of the Pole. “Earlier this afternoon, we brought Szymanski in for further questioning. We tracked him down to the massage parlour, Sweet Sensations, in Chapeltown. We also brought in the receptionist and the three girls working there, one of whom we suspect could be Helena’s friend, Lyudmyla, who she was supposed to have been visiting on the evening she was last seen. Kelly, you accompanied her to the house in Luxor Grove where they’ve all been staying. What can you say about that?”

  Stainmore described the house, the various girls’ rooms, a couple of Spartan kitchens and bathrooms before mentioning the locked ground floor room where she was told special parties took place. “Lyudmyla also mentioned a locked basement room as well,” she continued. “And, on the Thursday night Helena was last seen, Lyudmyla tells me that Szymanski made them work when it was supposed to be a night off.”

  “And I’ve just been to see DCS Flynn,” Strong came back, “he’s agreed we get a warrant to search the house. So, Jim,” he turned to DS Ryan, “I’d like you out there with the SOCO boys and see what they can turn up. Take Malcolm with you. I know it’s a long shot some two weeks on, but see what the neighbours recall. Probably all flats or bed-sits, but, you never know, you might come across some observant soul who remembers something around that time.” Strong then turned to Denholme. “We’ll come to Stella in a minute, but anything you can add to that, Vince, bearing in mind we now know you had the house under surveillance.”

  “That’s right. We had an anonymous call telling us that there were sexual parties being held there. I’ve got a tape of the call here, so if there’s a player I could borrow …?”

  “Try this,” Kirkland said from the back, picking up a tape player and passing it forward.

  Denholme put the machine on the table in front of him, placed the tape inside and pressed play. A young female voice with a distinct Eastern European accent began to speak:

  “You need to know,” she said, “house on Luxor Grove, number fifty-seven, men come there for … for disgusting sex. And the girls, they are young and are made to perform everything. You need to stop this.”

  “Can I just take your name, please?” a male voice asked.

  “No,” she replied, “no names. Just stop it.”

  A dialling tone interrupted, indicating the call was over.

  “Can you play that again,” Stainmore asked.

  Strong nodded to Denholme, who rewound, then pressed play once more.

  “You got something, Kelly?” Strong wondered when it had ended.

  “Make your mind up for yourself, guv,” she replied. “Come and have a word with Lyudmyla.”

  “You think it’s Lyudmyla?”

  “Ninety-nine per cent. I’ve just spent most of the afternoon with her.”

  Denholme raised his eyebrows. “Makes sense, I suppose.”

  “She was also lying when she said she didn’t know the address. I think she wanted to separate herself from the other girls. She kept saying she had nothing to lose but they did. Families back home, she was talking about.”

  “You’ve had Szymanski on your radar for some time, Vince. What can you tell us about him and his connections with this man?” Strong pointed to another photograph on the board, “Stanislav Mirczack.”

  “Stefan Szymanski,” Denholme began, “born in Zakopane in the Tatra Mountains in 1969. First arrived here, we believe, nearly three years ago. He first came to our notice when he was employed by Mirczack to manage the massage parlours; Shangri La in Bradford, Butterflies in Morley and Sweet Sensations in Chapeltown. In conjunction with the local authorities we do some spot checks to make sure there are no under-age activities, drugs, anything like that, health and safety checks.

  “Mirczack himself became known to us in 1996. Originally from Yugoslavia. As well as the three parlours, we believe he has interests in two nightclubs in Leeds and property through a company known as Balkan Investments – including 57 Luxor Grove.”

  “But you’ve no evidence of any criminal activities?”

  “We know he has connections with some heavy operators in Eastern Europe and is associated with an Albanian crew in London, but nothing we can tie him down to here so far.”

  “Is he running the other parlours with Eastern European women?”

  “No, the others are mostly staffed by English girls. Sensations seems to be the only one of its kind. But bear in mind, the girls you’ve brought in are only one shift at Sensations. There must be another group of girls who do the days this lot don’t.”

  “Of course,” Strong said. “They weren’t working seven days a week. Have the girls said anything about any others, Kelly, Luke?”

  “No, guv,” Stainmore replied. Ormerod shook his head.

  “So trafficking, then? Is he involved with that?”

  “We’re not sure,” Denholme responded. “We’re working with the London boys and the Greater Manchester force because we suspect these girls may be sold and shipped around the country between establishments but it’s early days, we’re still looking for links.”

  Strong exhaled deeply. “So any idea where he is now?”

  “We think he may be out of the country. We’ve got a watch on all air and seaports to let us know when he passes through.”

  “All right. Kelly, you speak to Lyudmyla again. She’s obviously not telling you everything – that phone message for a start, and any other girls and where they might be.”

  “What about the other two, guv?” Ormerod asked, “Nadia and Katarina.”

  “Who’s the officer sitting in with them at the moment?”

  “Kath Milner.
”

  Strong nodded. “She’s pretty experienced. See if she can tell you how they’ve reacted while they’ve been kept waiting. Keep her with you when you talk to them in the light of what Kelly’s told us. You know what to look for.”

  “Right, guv.”

  Strong turned to Denholme. “Vince, can you find out a bit more about Mirczack’s whereabouts? I wouldn’t want him walking in on our search party at Luxor Grove. And we could do with getting a formal statement from Stella too. She must know something about another shift of girls. Can you and Sam conduct the interview?”

  “No problems. I’ll get on it.”

  “Trevor, can you chase up the ballistics reports for me on Helena?”

  Newell nodded and walked back to his desk.

  “John,” Strong addressed Darby, “You come with me, I want you to sit in with me on our next little chat with Szymanski.”

  Lyudmyla sat nervously nibbling the skin at the side of her thumb when Stainmore returned to the ground floor interview room carrying a brown file. She looked up expectantly. The female uniformed officer acknowledged the detective’s nod and left the room.

  “Would you like another drink?” Stainmore asked, indicating the empty styrene cup on the table between them.

  The young woman shook her head. “Thank you, no.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Stainmore smiled and studied her for a few seconds. “Lyudmyla,” she finally began, “Why did you let me think you didn’t know the address of the house?”

  She looked indignant. “I didn’t.”

  Stainmore raised her eyebrows in a gesture of disbelief.

  “I didn’t,” the girl repeated. “It was Nadia you asked and she wasn’t sure. Then you ask something else.”

  “But you wanted the others to think you didn’t know too.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “What shifts do you and the other two actually do?”

  “We work from eleven in the morning until ten at night.”

  “I mean what days do you work?”

  “Usually Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Sunday.”

  “So what happens on the other days.”