by Bill Kitson
‘No it doesn’t, not in itself, but you must remember, I’ve seen him with this woman of his, you haven’t. I was watching, and boy, talk about steamy. Nash won’t have the time or energy for anything else except her, the lucky bastard. I bet he hates having to get out of bed in a morning. Mind you, I can’t say I blame him for that. If I’d someone as fit as she is warming my bed, I wouldn’t want to leave it, even to take a piss.’
‘All right, all right, I get the picture. The problem is, if the Pollard woman is alive and she isn’t with Nash, and we know she isn’t with the chief constable, where the hell is she? We don’t even know where to start looking.’
‘One good thing,’ Stanley pointed out, ‘if she isn’t with them, she isn’t likely to be telling them anything they can act on.’
‘Of course she can. She can e-mail them, talk to them on the phone.’
‘Not that easy to e-mail them, seeing we nicked her computer in London, but even if she’d done that, surely we’d have had some activity from them by now? You don’t think that news report was right and she could actually be dead?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. It could be she’s saving her info to get a big story, so she’ll only release it to the police when she can make sense of what she’s heard. Given the way that reporters behave these days I’m inclined to think that’s what’s happened. In that case, it makes finding her a bit less urgent and we can get on with our plans. Where are you now?’
‘I’m at the Park.’
‘Good, I’ll drive over and meet you there.’
The distribution centre for Kovac’s narcotics operation was known as the Park in an effort to maintain the secrecy of its location. It was late afternoon when Kovac arrived. He vanished into his office, a converted static caravan. He’d only been there a few minutes when his mobile rang. He glanced at the screen before answering. The display read INT’L. This, he assumed, would be the call he was expecting about the next consignment. Either that, or someone from a call centre trying to refund the payment protection, which he had never paid, on a loan he had never taken out. He answered and once the caller identified himself, Kovac switched at once into French, a language he was far less fluent in than English. This wasn’t too important, as his part of the conversation was limited to replies, mainly on the lines of ‘yes, I understand,’ or similar repetition of the caller’s instructions. He ended by giving an assurance that the money requested would be transferred into the caller’s bank immediately.
Using the guise of his meat production company, Kovac used the online banking facility to complete the promised transfer of funds before he summoned his assistant.
‘I have news, some very interesting news. I’ve had word from France. Not only is our delivery ready for despatch – but so is the opposition’s. And I have their route and method.’ He began relating what his informant had told him.
Stanley listened, his curiosity by now fully aroused. ‘What do you plan to do?’ he asked.
Kovac explained, watching his assistant’s face register approval as he came to the final part. ‘I think we should meet the Soldiers’ supplier before they do. I have even got details of the vessel they will use. This way, we make sure they don’t get their delivery. We can use the opportunity to dispose of more of their couriers; balance the odds a little. At the same time you need to make plans for our collection as expected. Notify our lobsterman, then we can have twice as much merchandise to sell, half of it free.’
Stanley discussed the details with him before heading off to inform their dealers to be ready.
Kovac had access to many sources of information. Unluckily, his sources didn’t include army personnel records. If they did, and he was able to read Tony Hartley’s file, he would probably have been interested in the annotation that revealed Hartley had been one of the finest surveillance officers in the service, second to none in planting and using sophisticated listening devices. Added to his skill with explosives, the report concluded, that made him a highly-valued asset.
Tony Hartley found the information culled during Ron Mason’s interrogation of the two captured men from Kovac’s team invaluable. Not least, the location of Kovac’s distribution centre which Hartley had visited surreptitiously in the early hours of the previous morning and bugged the office. Several hours later, Tony Hartley listened to a recording of Kovac’s and Stanley’s conversation regarding their intentions of stealing his incoming delivery.
He called Ron Mason into his office, played him the tape, then made a couple of phone calls, the gist of which defied his companion until Hartley explained. ‘Now we know they’re planning to intercept our consignment, we let them have it. But before we do, we reduce the size of the order and get our contacts to make a slight adjustment to our merchandise – we make it unsaleable.’
Even Mason was shocked by the plan, and that didn’t happen easily.
‘And now from what we’ve heard, we also know when and where theirs is coming in,’ Hartley continued. So, we play a game of tit-for-tat, payback for what they’ve already stolen and plan to steal from us. We empty their pots, even if it’s only lobster in them.’ Hartley smiled and added, ‘I’m partial to a bit of lobster. Tell the van drivers there will be a slight delay with their fish collection at the docks but they might be able to offer their customers lobster for sale as a special treat.’
Ron Mason looked at Hartley. For years whilst serving in the army, he had thought of him as no more than an average commander. It was only since meeting up with him again that he had recognized the man’s ruthless efficiency; two qualities Mason admired. ‘OK, but the problem remains, how did they get their information?’
‘Not from this end, that’s for sure. In which case, it may prove necessary for you to take a short holiday in Brittany soon. I hope your passport’s in order.’
Mason smiled. ‘All of them are.’
Chapter six
Inside the neat terrace house in Helmsdale, the young woman was excited, nervous, at times elated, at others afraid. Tonight, things were going to change, or so she thought. Knowing that what she was about to do was wrong didn’t stop her wanting to do it. So far it had all been innocent, fun, but not wicked. She grew even more tense as the time approached. Glancing at the clock every five minutes didn’t help, any more than repeatedly checking her appearance in the mirror did. Trying to rationalize what was happening was no better.
She hadn’t needed to go to the supermarket that day, the day she met him. The trip was more from boredom than a need for supplies. She’d been ambling from aisle to aisle collecting the few items on her mental list, staring at the stacked goods with lacklustre interest. She wasn’t bored because her husband was away; she was bored with her life. Worse than that, she hated her life. It was much better when he was away working on the rigs, even though she had no family close by, no friends she could call on. It hadn’t always been like that, but one by one her friends had dropped away, daunted by her husband.
Someone had asked once if she minded him being away for long periods. That would have been funny had it not been so poignant. She’d felt like screaming at them, ‘Yes, because whilst he’s on the rigs he’s sober, and whilst he’s on the rigs he can’t come home drunk and beat me up for no other reason than that he wants to. I really do miss that!’
She hadn’t done, of course. She’d done as always, bottled it up. Sometimes, she found it difficult to remember why she’d married him or what had attracted her to him. Now, she wasn’t sure which she hated most, the sickening brutality she knew would follow once she smelled alcohol on his breath, or the nauseating grovel of his apology once he’d sobered up and seen the extent of the damage that he’d inflicted on her in his drunken rage. If she’d anywhere to go, or anyone to turn to, she knew she’d walk out without a backward glance – without a trace of regret.
Her daydream had been rudely interrupted as her trolley collided with a man standing in the middle of the aisle staring at a display of breakfast cereals. She began t
o apologize, but he would have none of it.
‘My own fault,’ he’d said with a cheerful smile. ‘I wasn’t even thinking of buying them, merely passing the time.’ He looked at her closely. ‘Gosh, you’re pretty,’ he said, then, ‘sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
It was a long time since anyone had told her that, or anything like it, nor did she feel pretty. She’d smiled back. ‘You don’t need to be sorry, but I do think you might need an eye test.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my vision, and I stand by what I said.’
‘Why are you passing the time here? Are you unemployed?’
‘No, I work from home and sometimes I get bored with my own company.’
She’d sighed. ‘I know that feeling only too well.’ Before she knew quite what was happening, he’d offered to buy her a coffee in the supermarket cafe and she’d agreed. Over the drink they chatted and the common bond of loneliness soon became apparent. He told her he was divorced, and that his wife had moved somewhere down in the West Country together with their two children. ‘I miss them, although I don’t miss her,’ he’d said, his face clouded with unhappiness.
‘What went wrong? What caused the split?’
‘I found out she was sleeping with my best friend; had been doing for a couple of years.’
‘Did you confront them?’
‘No, I’m not really the confrontational type. I just walked out and never went back. I don’t miss her, not for herself, but I do miss the kids and the company.’
She’d seen the pain, the sadness in his eyes, and the loneliness that mirrored her own. When he’d asked, she agreed to meet him again, for a stronger drink this time.
At their next meeting he’d acted with perfect decorum throughout the evening. He’d taken her to a country pub, miles from Helmsdale. ‘I thought it best, less chance of anyone who knows you being in here,’ he’d told her.
That sort of consideration was something she was unused to, just as he’d dropped her at the end of her street to prevent any neighbours seeing her getting out of a stranger’s car. Before she opened the door, she’d leaned across to kiss him goodnight; the flicker of response she got from him told her all she needed to know.
She returned to the present, realizing with a shock that the time had come. Once she walked through that door, once she walked to the end of the road, once she got into his car, she knew she would have committed herself beyond recall. She picked up her handbag, looked around the room as if for the last time, and walked out, closing the door firmly behind her.
It was late when they left the pub. There had been only a few regulars in the bar, villagers she guessed, who had no interest in the couple sitting quietly in the corner making two glasses of wine and two orange juices last the whole evening as they talked. When they walked across the car park, she took his hand, clasping it with fingers that trembled slightly.
As before, he drove her back towards Helmsdale but as they approached Kirk Bolton he swung the car off the road towards the car park by the river. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked.
‘No,’ her voice was slightly husky, fear and longing at war. Her heart was thumping violently. Could he hear it, she wondered?
His hand rested on her knee, the touch burning through the fabric of her jeans as if it was on fire. He unfastened his seat belt and switched the engine off. As he reached across to unbuckle hers his hand brushed her breast then returned to caress it gently.
‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Stop for a minute. Put the headlights back on.’
‘What is it?’
‘I thought I saw someone. Over there by the picnic tables.’
‘Oh Lord!’ He turned the ignition key and switched the headlights to main beam. Passion died as they stared at the figure slumped over the picnic table. ‘Stay there, I’m going to take a look. He may be ill. He could be a tramp.’ He didn’t think so; didn’t know whether he’d convinced her.
As he got out of the car she felt the draught of air and shivered, not so much from the cold, but the certainty of what he would report on his return. She watched his shadow, elongated by the headlights, as he approached the motionless figure. Watched as he stood alongside the corpse for a long moment, then he moved and for a few seconds he disappeared behind a large bush. Was he being sick? She could hardly blame him if that was the case.
He reappeared and walked swiftly, almost ran back to the car. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
She looked across, saw the grim set of his features as he started the engine, and swung the wheel to his right; heard the tyres spurting on the gravel, echoes of his anxiety to leave this place.
‘Is he...?’
‘He’s dead. But that’s not the worst bit.’ Something in the way he said it should have prepared her, but there are some things you can’t prepare for.
‘What do you mean?’
‘ I think he’s been beaten to death. His face ... it’s horrible. Close to it looks like ... pulp. I’m so glad you didn’t have to see it. I wish I hadn’t. But that’s not all.’
‘Not all? But what else is there?’ she asked her voice beginning to rise in panic.
‘He isn’t alone. Behind the big bush – there’s another one.’
‘Another body?’
‘Yes, and by the look of it, he’s had the same treatment.’
‘Oh my God, what are we going to do? We have to report it.’
Gravel spurted from beneath his tyres as he accelerated out of the car park. As he turned on to the main road he said, ‘I know that, but it would be awkward. Give me time to think.’
She was silent, her hands clasped tightly on her lap as she started at the hedgerows flashing past the windscreen, praying he would find a solution. She wondered how they’d landed in this mess. Others seemed to get away with it, did this sort of thing time and again. They hadn’t even.... It had all seemed such an adventure, now it was threatening to become sordid. She could imagine people gossiping, pointing her out and sniggering.
He broke in to her train of thought. ‘I can’t report it to the police from my mobile or my home phone. If I did, they’d trace the call and want to know what I was doing out there, and who with. That would mean involving you, and I can’t allow that. No way can I risk that. You mean too much, I ... er ... I don’t want to spoil things for you.’
She felt suddenly cheered by his considerate thought, his protective words. It was a watershed moment, although she didn’t realize it at the time. ‘We can’t simply allow them to lie there until someone else finds them. It could be hours, days, maybe. And there are foxes and things. We have to tell someone.’
‘I’ve had an idea. When we get to Helmsdale, I’ll go in one of the pubs. There’s one just off the Market Place that has a public phone in the back entrance. I could slip in the back door without going through the bar, use the phone, and be out again within minutes. You can stay in the car. If I park well away from the building, no one will see you.’
Half an hour later he walked briskly back across the pub car park and got in to the car. ‘That’s it, done. Now let’s get out of here, in case they send someone to check up.’ They pulled out into the Market Place and he turned the car in the direction of her house. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so. It’s just thinking of those poor men, it’s well, it’s really awful.’ She shuddered.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, ‘this isn’t how I wanted the evening to end.’
‘Me neither,’ she said before she could stop herself. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Anyway,’ – she swallowed, nerves threatening to overcome her – ‘does it have to end like this?’
He glanced sideways. ‘What do you mean?’
She abandoned her last reserves of caution. ‘I don’t really want to be alone, do you? We’ve both had a dreadful shock. And didn’t you say your flat was near here? I could do with a stiff drink and I’m sure you could too.’
‘We could go to my place, but I wouldn’t be able to drive you home if I have a dri
nk.’
‘I know that. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere else.’ She turned as she spoke and her eyes met his as he glanced quickly at her.
‘Are you certain? I mean, absolutely certain.’
She was certain; and growing more so by the minute. She reached over and placed her hand on top of his as it rested on the gearstick. ‘Oh yes,’ she breathed. ‘I’m really, really sure.’ She giggled, which she guessed was in part relief from the stress of the trauma they had both endured. Much more though, from the decision she had made; a decision from which there could be no going back.
Chapter seven
Mironova was nodding off in an armchair, trying to summon up energy to drag herself to bed, when the phone rang.
‘Clara? Jack Binns here, I’m on my way to Kirk Bolton. We’ve a pair of bodies on our hands. Unidentified males, found sometime this evening. We got an anonymous call from a public phone in one of the Helmsdale pubs.’
Mironova was instantly awake. ‘Where did you say?’
‘Kirk Bolton. In the picnic area alongside the river where all the courting couples go. The one the locals refer to as Leg over lay-by.’
‘OK, I know where you mean. Have you called Fleming?’
‘Already done. And Mexican Pete; he’ll meet us there. He asked where Mike was. Said Nash would be beside himself at being away and missing three bodies to drool over.’
Clara smiled at the reference to the pathologist. Although Spanish by birth, his nickname was derived from The Ballad of Eskimo Nell. ‘Mexican Pete seems to have developed what he considers to be a sense of humour. I’m on my way. Can you raise Lisa Andrews for me? And, Jack, I really appreciate your help.’
The crime scene was already illuminated by a powerful generator-driven arc light, supplemented by the headlights of two patrol cars, the pathologist and CSI teams hadn’t arrived. Clara walked over to a pair of traffic officers who were busy setting up a cordon of incident tape, their faces changing colour, tinted by the emergency lights of their vehicles. ‘You lads are well organized.’ She pointed to the generator.
