by Rachel Lynch
From her room, she could make out a little of the street below, where the traffic rumbled steadily. It was a tiny hatch window and so she couldn’t climb out onto the roof to go looking for a fire escape. As far as she could work out, whoever was on the other side of the door hadn’t expected the room to be occupied and therefore did not know her identity; this was her trump card and she needed to keep it that way. She also needed to move rooms.
She began packing the large rucksack that had travelled all the way with her from Lodz. She had no doubt that the person on the other side of her door knew what had happened to Anushka and Roza, and might even have harmed them. She realised now that her roommates might never come back. She packed the envelope and the drawstring bag, then got the laptop out of the wardrobe, and squeezed it in too. Still, she waited.
A man’s voice wafted up the stairs; it was George. There was an exchange, and for the first time, Gabriela heard the voice of the man who wished to get into her room. It sounded local.
‘Sorry, mate, I was looking for my girlfriend. She used to work here and I haven’t seen her for a while, you know?’
‘What’s her name?’ asked George.
‘Nush. I’m pretty sure she said she stayed in this room here.’
‘She left. She used to work dinner and the occasional breakfast – red hair, right? I haven’t seen her in a while.’
‘So who’s in here now?’
Gabriela’s heart stopped.
‘I’ve no idea, mate. I’ll see you downstairs.’ There was a silence. George was five foot nothing tall but also five foot wide, and his night job was bouncing in some of the roughest nightclubs in Bowness. He sported tattooed sleeves depicting animals and war, and his biceps were the size of Gabriela’s thighs. Gabriela hoped this was enough to put off the man with no name and no face.
It was.
‘Gabriela? It’s George. He’s gone.’
Hands shaking, Gabriela tentatively unbolted the door. George stood before her, smiling. She couldn’t imagine him violent, but she was sure that he could be.
‘Thank you, George. I think he was looking for the girls who used to stay in this room. I don’t suppose there are any other staff rooms free? I get the feeling he’ll be back and I didn’t like the sound of him. He tried to pick the lock.’
‘Let me see what I can do. Go back in and bolt the door.’
Half an hour later, he was back. He’d found a room on the third floor, in the attic, that was free. Gabriela said she’d take anything.
‘George, will you come with me?’ She was terrified and didn’t want to be alone.
Deciding that any enquiry downstairs could wait, he helped her carry her things up to her new room. It was musty and hadn’t been lived in for a while, but she could deal with that. She checked the door: it had a bolt. She threw open the window for some air.
‘Thank you, George.’
‘If he bothers you again, just you tell me.’
Once George had gone back downstairs, Gabriela closed the door and bolted it. She put her bag by the wardrobe but didn’t unpack. She was extremely tired suddenly, and wanted to lie down and forget everything. She climbed into the small bed, even though it wasn’t made properly, and slept until her alarm woke her at nine p.m. It was time to go back to work.
Chapter 28
Kelly had a few names for some of the faces of the girls servicing men for cash in Colin Day’s hotels. The names they did have weren’t English, and they hadn’t applied for work permits. But it was taking time ploughing through all the data they’d collated so far. A picture was forming, but as yet, it didn’t make sense. Kelly knew that money was at the centre of it all, and somehow, Colin Day was producing lots of it and making it legitimate. He owned tanning salons in Penrith, Ambleside, Keswick, Barrow, Ulverston and Kendal and every one of them turned over a staggering profit every year. It was a cash-intensive service business – perfect for placing dirty money and hiding it.
The names of the clients at the Thwaite Hotel were more than likely fictitious. They were classic clichés such as Mr Jones, and Mr White; there was even a Mr Trump. Kelly’s guess that they’d be dead ends turned out to be right. The extent of Colin Day’s dealings was overwhelming and the investigation took over their lives.
‘I’m going to visit the Crawleys myself. They’re a well-known Penrith family, and need handling with tact.’ Kelly sipped coffee. Her team had grown, thanks to DCI Cane, and they watched and listened intently as she spoke; it was testimony to how far she’d proved herself up to now. DI Richie Park had left her to it, and gone on leave, and when he returned it would be to Lancaster. She was firmly in charge.
‘The centre of our investigation is Colin Day. His wife didn’t think he’d be running this rig on his own – her words: “he’d enjoy the trappings but not the hard work”. Now we can’t base our assumptions on one witness – a hostile, bitter one at that – but if we pursue the lead, it points to an accomplice: Tomb Day. How are the accountants getting on, Will?’ Kelly knew she’d given Phillips the dullest job, but that was because he was diligent and could handle it; besides, she was monitoring how he handled the lower-profile leads. So far, he’d impressed her.
‘They think they might have something, guv. In the paperwork from Day’s personal office at home, we found details of what at first glance appears to be a holiday, though it’s clearly something else entirely – something he stood to make a lot of money out of. This was found amongst the papers.’ Phillips approached the whiteboard and used his laptop. Documents appeared on the screen that did indeed look like a holiday itinerary. There were photos of a beautiful stone mansion hidden away in the Borrowdale valley sleeping thirty people, as well as details for helicopter landing sites. The company renting the property was called Elite Escapes. Prices were circled and a quick profit sheet had been sketched out. It summarised that if revenue was around a hundred thousand pounds, and costs around twenty thousand, it would make a handsome profit. But what was on sale? Also interesting, written in red alongside the accommodation details, was a note to self. It read: Trust Marko with cash?
‘Clearly not a holiday, then. He’s selling something,’ Kelly said.
‘We don’t know who this Marko is, but there are certainly a few shady characters about who flag up when entered in HOLMES. One of them is Marko Popovic, known to have operated for some years out of Merseyside. He hasn’t been on their radar for a while, though.’
‘Does he have a record?’ asked Kelly.
‘No, never could pin anything on him.’
‘So he was never charged with anything? Why is he on HOLMES?’
‘He was interviewed regarding an ABH in a club he owned.’
Kelly considered the Merseyside lead.
‘What’s Harry Chase up to at the minute?’ As part of her investigation into Lottie Davis’s murder, she had spoken to an officer at Merseyside Police who had a personal interest in Chase: his cousin’s son had been groomed by a paedophile ring linked to him, but the CPS had decided to go after someone else because they didn’t have enough on Chase.
‘Low profile, since his time inside.’
‘We’d need a warrant to look into his financial affairs.’ It was frustrating. Kelly decided to keep it as something to follow up. It didn’t matter where in the UK they lived: criminals all knew each other. They might not be best pals, but they were aware of each other and didn’t step on toes. She wondered why Marko Popovic had left the area, and whether he’d moved to Cumbria.
‘Hide, did we find out if Chase and Chase was owned by our man?’
‘Yes, guv, it was. It’s the same Chase, it was bought by another local firm which doesn’t appear- yet- to have any links to its former owner, but I’m still working on it.
‘A coincidence perhaps. I’m not convinced. OK, it’s another lead. I’m guessing that Marko Popovic is of eastern European origin with a name like that? Did Merseyside Police say?’
‘Yes, he’s from Sarajevo.’
‘Same as our young friend in the hospital.’ Kelly shifted in her seat. Interesting. DC Hide, anything on Colin Day’s two mobile phones?’
‘Yes, guv. The personal mobile has several numbers in the log, all so far turning out to be legitimate, but the phone that his wife said was his work mobile only has three numbers, which appear over and over again. None of them are traceable, so all three must be pay-as-you-go.’
‘Keep trying them.’
‘Forensics have come back about the red hair tangled in Colin Day’s wedding band, confirmed to be human: they told us that one had a follicle attached and are trying to get a DNA profile.’
‘Have we had any more sightings of Anushka?’
The answer was negative. Enquiries at local pawn shops indicated that no one had tried to pawn the ring or the Rolex.
‘I’ve got a photograph of Mrs Day wearing the ring.’ Kelly brought it up on screen; it was stunning, and she was surprised that the young prostitute hadn’t tried to sell it. She had also been given a photograph of the 2005 Rolex Oyster Perpetual, found on a vintage Rolex site by Christine; that appeared on screen alongside the ring.
‘The substance under Mr Day’s nails comes as no surprise: perfumed mineral oil, a distillate of petroleum – in other words, bog-standard baby oil. So apart from proving that Colin Day liked to oil his ladies up, it’s a dead end. Every house in the country has a bottle of baby oil tucked in the cupboard.’
Kelly turned to DC Phillips. ‘What about the codes from Mr Day’s home office?’
‘They could be passwords or safe combinations, guv. Some are six digits and some are eight – those could be bank accounts or phone numbers.’
Kelly rubbed her eyes. ‘I don’t need to tell you all that this investigation is growing at an alarming rate. Any hits on for Anushka Ivanov in and out of air and sea ports? Trains?’
‘No, guv.’
‘Not surprising. If Jovana Galic’s story turns out to have legs, we’re unlikely to get any joy there, as Anushka will have other means to travel illegally. This is certainly more than a local operation. It’s slick and organised. Phillips, I’m reassigning you to look into this Marko Popovic. Could I have a volunteer to take over the accounts?’
A hand flew up and Kelly thanked the young female DC from South Lakes.
‘I’m going to Barrow to follow a lead in the Lottie Davis case. It’ll give me an opportunity to brief DI Lockwood on how we’re using his resources too. I have my iPad and phone – don’t hesitate to contact me about anything at all. That’s all for now, thank you. Keep up the great work.’ She grabbed her coat and closed her computer down. Dave had rearranged their meeting giving her some excuse about work, she’d have to wait another day. He’d only meet her at Junction 40 services, and nowhere else. He was terrified of being caught with his old girlfriend anywhere near Penrith. Kelly didn’t mind either way. The last thing on her mind was the insecurities of a friend of her sister’s. This was pure business.
As she was about to leave, her phone rang and she swore. She recognised the number and answered it hoping that Constable Coombs had something interesting to say. She was recommending him for detective work; he had an eye.
‘Constable.’
‘Ma’am. I thought you’d like to know that we’ve just had a missing person’s report logged. It’s Anna Cork’s mother: she hasn’t seen her daughter in three days.’
Chapter 29
Kelly’s drive to Barrow was uneventful. She took the M6 to miss the Lakes traffic, and was there in under an hour. On the way, she reflected that for once she was grateful to her sister. Their mother had been released from hospital with a flimsy excuse and no diagnosis, and Nikki had taken her in for the time being. Stress had been mentioned, and that gave Nikki the green light to point the finger at her wayward sister, rocking the boat and sending Mum’s blood pressure even higher. Kelly ignored her. At least with her mother at Nikki’s, she wouldn’t feel so torn when she worked such long hours.
DI Lockwood made them coffee and they chatted about the two cases that seemed to be involving the DI’s patch more each day.
‘So you found Wade Maddox?’ Kelly said. ‘What was he like?’
‘Just as I expected: wasting his life playing computer games, drawing dole and hanging out with the wrong crowd. He remembered Lottie’s red dress, Kelly. I didn’t mention it; he did.’
‘Christ.’
‘I know.’
Lockwood told her what Wade had said about Darren Beckett’s knowledge of the Davis’s trip out, as well as Lottie’s dress.
‘And Beckett’s landlord was more than happy to hand over the keys?’ Kelly asked.
‘Beckett’s behind on the rent so he wants the place cleared out. He figures if he can get someone else to foot the bill – the police in this case – that’s better than him having to do it himself.’
‘Have you been in?’ Kelly asked.
‘No, I was waiting for you.’
They left the office and walked to Lockwood’s car.
‘How did the football match go?’ asked Kelly.
‘Terrible. When they win – which is rare – he’s up in the clouds; when they lose, God, he’s a grumpy little shit.’
Kelly laughed.
‘You got kids?’ Lockwood asked her.
‘Nope. Sounds like the hardest job in the world to me.’
‘And that would put you off?’
‘I’ve never thought about it like that. Anyway, I’m too old now.’
Lockwood laughed. ‘Christ, you can’t be a day over thirty!’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m thirty-six.’
Lockwood parked outside flat 5B. Kelly noted how grim the area was compared to the place she’d returned to live. It was a concrete mass of flats, with little light and no greenery to speak of. The place was deserted. It must be a bleak place to live, but perfect to be anonymous.
They approached the flat, and Lockwood took out a key and opened the door.
The place stank. It was a smell that took Kelly back to her student days: unwashed bodies mixed with cigarette smoke and something else – poverty. It was a hovel. They put on gloves.
The living room consisted of one sofa and a TV. They moved the sofa and looked underneath, then turned the TV upside down and replaced it.
There were only four rooms in total. They entered the bathroom next, and Kelly gagged. The toilet hadn’t been flushed by whoever had last used it, and the stench of faeces and strong urine hit them. They covered their mouths. Lockwood shone a torch into the bathtub; it too was appalling. On closer inspection he noticed hairs around the scum line, and took out a bag to collect them. They were long, but in the poor light from the cheap bulb, it was impossible to tell what colour they were. Kelly turned her attention to the sink. It was surrounded by a whole array of drug paraphernalia – a syringe, used foil, three teaspoons and a spilled bottle of diazepam – which she bagged. She scraped residue from the enamel and bagged that too. Lockwood said he’d check with Darren’s GP about a prescription. Kelly thought it strange that someone would leave a drug such as diazepam behind; users usually suffered if they missed their downers. Maybe they belonged to someone else.
The next room had a double bed, on top of which lay screwed-up dirty sheets. Apart from that, the only other item in the room was a wardrobe with a few pieces of clothing thrown inside. Kelly rooted through them and noticed that they included some women’s garments: a bra, stockings and a tailored jacket, as well as some dirty jeans and some tissues. In the corner of the wardrobe, at the back, there was a handbag. Kelly thought it looked familiar. She picked it up and glanced inside. There was a phone, a wallet, and a folded piece of paper with a number written on it in pencil. There was also a name badge like those worn by hotel workers. It read: Anushka, Waitress. She turned it over, not quite believing what she was seeing. On the back was a sticker with the address of the Troutbeck Guest House. She flicked through the wallet. Anushka’s Polish dr
iving licence was in there, with a clear photo. She showed the bag to Lockwood.
‘The Colin Day case, the one I’m stealing all your officers for – this bag belongs to a major witness. We haven’t been able to trace her at all, and now she turns up here, in a flat on Barrow Island. Who is this Darren Beckett, Lockwood? And what’s he been up to?’
‘According to his mother, he works in the hotel industry, and travels out of the area regularly.’
‘Wait a minute. She called someone.’ Kelly spoke quickly and Lockwood was lost.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Colin Day died during an encounter with a prostitute – Anushka, the owner of this bag. He taped the whole thing. After she’d robbed him, she called someone. When you were talking to Darren’s mother about the missing person report, did she give you a phone number for him?’
‘Of course. I’ve tried it several times,’ Lockwood said.
Kelly held up the phone from Anushka’s bag. ‘If she called Beckett, it’ll be on here. If we find Beckett, we find Anushka. That hair you found in the bath – let’s have a look at it outside.’
Lockwood followed her out. In daylight, she could see that the hairs were bright red.
‘Shit, where do we stand getting a warrant for this place now we’ve found this?’
‘We don’t need one,’ Lockwood said. ‘The landlord is the owner, and he let us in.’
‘OK. I need a forensic team here to establish whether these things were stolen, or whether Anushka Ivanov was here in Darren Beckett’s flat.’
Chapter 30
Darren vomited for the fourth time into the grubby sink that had once been white. Marko was kindly allowing him to doss in one of his more unsavoury apartment blocks in Penrith. It was a dump, and it rained here even more than it did in Barrow. His twenty-eight-year-old body was letting him down prematurely. He was losing weight fast but he had no stomach for food. His last bowl of cereal was now being stirred into the plughole in an attempt to unblock it.
