‘Of course, Gilbert. Of course,’ I assured him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ludmilla brushed at the creases in the dress she was wearing and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Too much lipstick, she thought, and wiped it off with a tissue. Five minutes later it was as she wanted. She combed her hair to one side, half off her face, half on, as she’d worn it at the village dances when she was small, and fixed it with the clasp she’d worn on the journey here. Everybody said it suited her that way. She brushed her teeth and dabbed the cheap perfume on her neck. This was the third time today that she’d made these preparations, but she was determined to look her best when he came. Her sexiest, most alluring best. Last night she hadn’t looked good, and she hadn’t given value for money, of that she was certain. Phone-calls will have been made, complaints passed along the line. He was sure to come.
She was dozing when she heard the key in the door, and sat up with a start. What was it she was going to say? She’d learnt more English in the three weeks she’d been here but still felt awkward using it. And what if it was Duggie who came? She was no match for him. He’d beat her and rape her, probably bring a friend or two, and she’d have planned all this for nothing. She jumped to her feet and stood at the far side of the bed, one hand clutched to her breast and her mouth and eyes wide with fear.
The door was flung back against the wall and Wallenberg was standing there, the long package containing his little electric friend in one hand.
‘What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’ he demanded, striding into the room and locking the door behind him. He threw his coat and jacket on the floor and flicked the plastic bag off the prod.
‘I explain,’ Ludmilla protested. ‘I explain.’
But he wasn’t listening. He switched the prod on and jabbed it against her outstretched hand. Ludmilla screamed as the electricity pulsed through her. ‘Please please!’ she whimpered. ‘I explain. Please let me explain.’
‘Explain what?’ he shouted at her. ‘There’s nothing to explain. You’re costing me a fortune; you know that? Duggie says you can’t be trusted, so we have to keep you locked up and fed. And now this. Do you know how much he was paying, last night? And for what? An evening with a frigid little cow like you. I’d have thought you’d learnt your lesson, but it looks like you didn’t. We’ll have to teach you some manners, young lady, and then Duggie will want to give you a lesson of his own.’ He jabbed the prod against her neck and it felt as if her head had been blown off.
‘No! No!’ she screamed, clutching her throat. ‘Not your little friend. Ludmilla not know what he wanted. I try, please, I try. Me not used to this. I work hard for you. But he difficult. He an old man. I not know what to do.’
‘Well you should have used your imagination, shouldn’t you?’ He pointed the prod at her, waving the end around, avoiding her hands held up defensively as he tried to touch it against her body.
‘Ludmilla not have imagination. Why you not show me? I work hard for you. I do my best. But I am young. I need lessons. I learn very quickly. Why you not show me, then I earn lots of money? You pay me, one day, maybe, if I do well? I earn lots of money for you. For us.’
‘Show you?’ he repeated, suddenly interested. The straps of her dress had slipped down her arms and her hair was pinned to one side, making her look more sophisticated than any of his other girls. Sophistication was a quality he didn’t normally expect from them.
‘Ludmilla a good girl,’ she said. ‘You show me what to do. Please.’ She stood helplessly in front of him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘Ludmilla only want to please you.’
He grabbed her shoulders and slid the dress down. She put her hands on his waist and started to pull his shirt from his pants. Soon her hands were on the small of his back and his were fondling her breasts. She turned her lips to his and their mouths fused together. Wallenberg was filled with amazement. Prostitutes don’t normally kiss their clients. It was an unwritten rule, and this was beyond anything he’d experienced before with one. He pushed her back onto the bed and they rolled into the middle. She came out on top, astride him, and began to unbutton his shirt.
She hated every second of it. She hated the smell of him and his bristly chin and the ripple of his ribs down his chest. She hated the greasy hair and the curve of his spine. She hated his fingers probing and exploring her, and the thick wet lips as they chewed at hers. Most of all she hated herself for making him believe, for just a few minutes, that she could ever enjoy this.
Her left hand fell on the fly of his trousers and she could feel his hardness inside them. She rumbled with the top button as her tongue slid alongside his, until she withdrew it, teasing him, prolonging the pleasure, and allowed the tip to follow the curve of his jaw towards his ear. He turned his head to accommodate her, wondering what other delights she held for him, turned away from the electric cattle prod he’d left leaning against the bed, oblivious of her right hand as it slowly walked across the sheets, towards it.
Wednesday morning Dave was holding court when I entered the big office, with the others showing varying degrees of interest. He was just coming to the punch line of one of his stories. ‘And the gynaecologist handed the woman the box of chocolates and said: ‘These are from Brian in the burns unit, to say thank you for his new ears.’’
Some laughed, most shook their heads and turned back to their desks. I said: ‘Is this all you have to do?’
‘Raising morale, Chas,’ he replied. ‘Something that’s lacking from your style of leadership.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind. Put the kettle on, please. Anybody any biscuits?’
A manila envelope that I’d been waiting for was on my desk. I dialled Heckley Grammar School, jammed the phone between my chin and shoulder like I’d seen busy people do on TV, and tore the envelope open.
‘Could you tell me if Miss Barraclough is working?’ I asked the school secretary when she answered. I think it was the school secretary, but from her attitude and accent it could have been the Minister for Education on a state visit.
‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to release any information on staff members.’
Jesus Christ, I thought. I want to know if she’s working, not where she banks and her PIN number. ‘This is Heckley CID,’ I said. ‘My name is Inspector Priest. If she is working would you be good enough to ask her to ring me?’
‘Oh, the police,’ she stumbled. ‘Um, I suppose it’s alright, then. Miss Barraclough rang in on Monday, said she was sick.’
The envelope contained a summary of the post-mortems on the two bodies. I’d driven past Rosie’s a couple of times, but there was no sign of either her or her car, and she hadn’t answered the phone when I rang.
There was little in the reports that the Home Office pathologist hadn’t told us at the time. Both girls were about the same age and had died approximately one year apart. The earlier corpse was wearing all British clothing but her trainers were of continental origin. The later one was wearing a mixture of makes but no shoes. Both had undergone some dental remedial work with amalgam fillings and several extractions. The earlier corpse had a freshly healed broken left ulna and an old fracture of the right fibula that had healed badly. Causes of death were uncertain, but the broken hyoid bones indicted strangulation.
It’s what a report doesn’t say that is most eloquent. I rang the professor at the General who had assisted at the post-mortems and caught him between jobs. ‘Would I be right in thinking East European, or ex-Soviet Bloc,’ I asked.
‘I’d say so, Charlie,’ he replied. ‘The dental details have gone to the forensic odontologist for his comments, and we should get something from the jewellery, but it’s looking like it. Interpol might be able to tell you about the trainers and those jeans.’
‘I’ll prepare a submission to them, and ask if they fit the profiles of any missing persons. Is there anything else, off the record, that occurs to you?’
‘Not directly, but they’d both had hard lives and knew wh
at it meant to go hungry. They’d be easy to lure over here and force into a life of prostitution. Perhaps the toxicology report will tell us something.’
‘The West was hardly the Land of Opportunity for them, was it?’ I said.
‘No, I’m afraid it wasn’t,’ he replied.
At lunchtime I went for a walk into the town centre. A ridge of high pressure had parked itself above Heckley, so it was cold in spite of the bright sun. The town was bustling with shoppers looking for bargains in the run-up to Christmas and office workers collecting their sandwiches or sneaking into the pub for a quick uplifter. I walked towards the mall and gave the Big Issue seller a pound coin, told him I didn’t need the magazine. A beggar was sitting in the doorway with his dog, a handwritten cardboard sign saying he was homeless, God bless. They all drive BMWs, according to popular belief, but I don’t know where his was parked.
I strolled up into the food court, using the stairs instead of the escalator because I needed the exercise. The choice was Chinese, KFC, Burger King, Massarella’s, fish and chips, pizza, jacket potato or Yorkshire pudding with a filling. Nearly all the tables were taken, mainly by young women with babies in buggies and toddlers bearing names straight out of the celebrity trash magazines. A snotty-nosed infant called Timberlake was doing his best to destroy his portion of the planet while his mother spoon-fed a baby with goo from a jar. I committed his face to memory, then decided I’d be long-gone before he was old enough to be deemed responsible for his deeds. The place was buzzing with conversation and reprimands and the scrape of chairs on the hard floor. I hesitated outside Massarella’s then decided not to bother. I’d take a sandwich into the office.
Art of Asia was still closed, ‘Until further notice’ according to the signs in each window. We’d got the keys and the place was preserved as evidence, but for what we had yet to decide. Wallenberg had not declared himself the owner, and the rent had been paid, so nothing was spoiling. Jeff Caton came down every morning and checked the mail but nothing of interest had turned up. I peered through a window and a big fat Buddha smiled back at me. A lithe Indian lady was sitting on his lap in what might be termed a compromising position, so his smile was well justified.
I strolled out of the mall into the town square. Some of the office workers were wearing sunglasses and a hardy few had shed their jackets. Everybody walked purposefully, cramming as much as possible into their hour of freedom. Two girls in identical skirts and blouses were huddled in the doorway of HSBC, pulling on cigarettes like drowning sailors, while two more, in fishnet tights and grammar school blazers, drew on their cigs more furtively. The travel agents were offering short breaks in Malta for the price of a pair of designer jeans, and Specsavers would give you two-for-one.
L’Autre Place was busy. There was a lunchtime menu in a frame in the doorway, listing two courses for 9.99 or three for 11.99, and they weren’t short of takers. They weren’t policemen, of that I was sure. The Malta offer was tempting. I could go in and book it, get myself to the airport Saturday morning and have a week of sunshine, cheap wine and relaxation. I bought a chicken tikka sandwich at Greggs and took it back to the office, content that Heckley was functioning normally and a safe place for women and children.
I was hovering over the kettle, waiting for it to boil, when Gilbert came in. ‘Can I have a word, Charlie,’ he said, ‘in my office?’
I wondered what was wrong with the phone and followed him up the stairs. Jones’s brief had complained about me, I decided. So what? I was fireproof. The worst that could happen was that they’d pay me to go quietly, on full pension. It’d be a wrench, I told myself, but I’d survive. Maybe I’d be going to Malta after all. Or Marrakech. I’d always wanted to go to Marrakech.
It wasn’t until he was in his seat and I was facing him that I noticed how white his face was. He glanced towards the window, then down at his blotter, which he decided needed moving a couple of inches to the right. He looked anywhere but at me. Gilbert always looks grave, but this was something extra. ‘What is it?’ I asked as I lowered myself into the chair.
‘I’ve some bad news, Charlie,’ he said, finally facing me. ‘It’s your friend Rosie. Rosie Barraclough. I’m afraid she’s been found dead.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
She couldn’t be. That was my first reaction. It was impossible. She was vibrant and beautiful and bubbling with life. She always wore red, highlighting her silver hair, and pictures of her flashed up before me: Rosie the first time I saw her, sitting behind a desk at the grammar school; Rosie waving her geologist’s hammer at me deep in a quarry in the Dales; Rosie at the football match, shouting for the referee to put his spectacles on. She couldn’t be dead. It was impossible.
But that was the visible Rosie. There were other times, when she wouldn’t see me, when her demons came, and I knew it wasn’t impossible at all.
Gilbert was talking but I hadn’t heard a word. ‘I’m sorry, Gilbert. What was that?’
‘I was just saying that Graham Myers, Superintendent Myers from Scarborough, has been on the phone. Rosie was found this morning in a bed-and-breakfast in Scarborough. First indications are that she’d taken an overdose of paracetamol. There was a note, addressed to you. Graham would like you to go over and do the necessary.’
‘Identify her?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Right.’ I rose to my feet and looked around. What did I need? I wanted to get over there, see for myself. I didn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it, until I saw her lying there. ‘I’ll go now,’ I said, ‘if that’s all right?’
Gilbert jumped up. ‘I’ll tell one of the DCs to take you. Go collect your jacket and I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘No,’ I protested. ‘I’ll be OK. I’ll manage on my own.’
‘It’s too far to go on your own,’ he insisted. ‘And you’ll be in the wrong frame of mind. I’ll see you downstairs; that’s an order.’
Poor old Robert drew the short straw, mainly because he holidayed with his kids in Scarborough. We drove most of the way in silence, passing the occasional comment about other drivers and briefly talking about the job. People from Yorkshire divide into groups according to which seaside resort they prefer: Scarborough, Filey, Whitby or Bridlington, with Scarborough devotees considering themselves to be a cut above the others. They refer to the place as the Queen of Watering Holes, and acknowledge no rivals. All it meant to me was that he knew where to find the police station.
Graham Myers could not have been more considerate. He shook my hand and told me how sorry he was. Robert said he’d see me tomorrow and turned to go.
‘Aren’t you waiting for me?’ I asked. ‘It won’t take long, will it?’
They’d obviously worked it out between themselves. Robert brought me, I’d stay overnight, somebody would deliver me back home. I was incapable of straight thinking, was being blown along by events, so I just accepted what they said. I thanked Rob for bringing me and he said it was a sad business.
‘Will you tell the others, please,’ I said before he left. I didn’t want embarrassed glances and everybody avoiding me when I was back in the office.
She was at the hospital. I’d expected her to be in a funeral home, but I should have realised that there’d have to be a PM, so she was at the hospital. I’ve been through the procedure dozens of times, and it’s never easy, but this was the first time I’d been the person doing the identification.
The attendant lifted the sheet back and there was Rosie, her face framed in silver and red, looking blissfully unaware of the grief she was causing. Her eyes were closed and I swear there was a hint of a smile on her lips as she lay there, deep in the peaceful oblivion she’d craved for so long.
‘Do you want leaving for a while, Charlie?’ Superintendent Myers asked.
I shook my head. ‘No.’ I touched the side of her face with the back of my fingers, then stooped to kiss her forehead. ‘No,’ I repeated, adding: ‘This is the woman I know as Rosie Barraclough.’
The note Rosie had left was in the super’s office. ‘It’s only a photocopy, I’m afraid,’ he told me. ‘The original has gone for tests. We were playing safe, as we knew nothing about her, but I’ll get it for you in the morning.’
He produced the photocopies from his drawer. The first was of the envelope, addressed to Detective Inspector Charles Priest, Heckley CID in a small, neat script. The next sheet was the note.
Dearest Charlie, I read. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Not the pills. That’s the easy bit. That’s the bit I’ve been drawn towards for years. No, it’s the writing of this note to you that is troubling me.
I warned you that I came with baggage, but I didn’t tell you how much. I once told you about my husband, said he was a waster. He wasn’t. He was kind and considerate and had the patience of a saint. I drove him to drink and gambling, drove him away from me. I didn’t want to do that to you. You deserve better.
The football match was fun. One of my happier memories. Your face when I came back from the Ladies was a picture. I hope you catch all the criminals, whoever they are. If anyone can do it it’s Charlie Priest.
I can’t put this off any longer. It’s calling to me. When you read this I’ll be part of yesterday’s ten thousand years. Thanks for trying, Charlie. Thanks for making me happy during our brief friendship, and please forgive me for doing this to you. I hope you find someone who deserves you more than I did.
All my love
Rosie
Graham Myers had left the room, left me alone with Rosie’s final message. I looked around and saw the usual trappings of office: the staff college photos; his uniform cap hanging on a hook; the law books that he’d never read. On the wall to the side of his desk was a picture of the Skye Cuillins, torn from a calendar and pinned up because it had special meaning for him. He was a man of the hills and I warmed to him. No doubt he’d turn to it when he was bogged down with NIMs and SARA and income generation and benchmarking, and off he’d go to where the only problem was to get back to safety before nightfall, before the pub closed.
Over the Edge Page 17
