by Rachel Lynch
‘I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’ve got a job to do. I’m sorry about your dad, though. What’s wrong?’
‘Cancer. Inoperable. He’s got about four months left. I shouldn’t have mentioned it, not what after happened with your dad…’
‘Hey, it’s fine. Cancer’s shit; it seems to get everyone eventually. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here in time for my dad.’
‘He always talked about you, couldn’t shut him up.’
‘Since when did you socialise with my dad?’ She already knew the answer. Dave was the son her father had never had, and he’d always held it against her that he’d lost him.
‘We still went for our Thursday pint, right up until… He loved you, Kel.’ She started to argue but he cut her off. ‘I know you find it hard to believe, but he was so proud of you.’
‘Funny way of showing it.’
‘What did you expect? You left him all alone with that sister of yours; no wonder he was mad.’ He smiled, and suddenly Kelly saw the younger Dave in his eyes. She desperately wanted to ask if he was happy, but she was afraid to cross a line that was already crumbling.
‘Look, Kel, I need to get back. Josh has got football.’ He looked at his watch again. Kelly was sure now that it was a Patek Philippe model; Matt the twat had been obsessed with them.
‘Of course you do. Where are you living now, Dave?’
‘Oh, Mosedale.’
‘Really? Nice.’ Mosedale was a quiet hamlet of stone cottages and expensive barn conversions.
He got up to leave, and she followed him discreetly to the door and watched him walk across the car park. He disappeared behind a van, and she moved to another section of the café to see him, then watched as he climbed into a Range Rover Sport.
Chapter 34
‘Ted Wallis speaking.’ The chief coroner sounded distracted as he answered his phone.
‘Hello, Mr Wallis. My name is Kelly Porter and I’m a detective inspector with Cumbria Constabulary. I’m chasing a few cases and I wondered if you had a moment to chat?’
‘Well, well, well, I haven’t heard that name in a while. John Porter’s girl?’
‘The same. You knew my dad?’
‘I did. So you followed him into the force? He’d be proud. Are you based here in Carlisle? You should have dropped in. How is your mother?’
‘She’s good, thank you.’ Kelly was taken by surprise; she hadn’t realised she was calling an old family friend. ‘Actually, I’m calling from Penrith, but I noticed that your name is on the autopsy reports of two of my cases and I have reason to believe they’re linked by a person of interest.’
Ted sounded intrigued. ‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘In 2012, you autopsied Lottie Davis. She was—’
‘Ten years old, went missing from Haweswater on a family outing to spot rare eagles, found in a red party dress dumped in a ditch above Dobbin Wood. Her father was innocent but committed suicide a year later.’
Kelly was impressed. She’d spoken to many coroners and they usually came across as aloof and condescending, but not this one.
‘That’s the type of case one can’t forget. It was truly awful. Am I right in thinking that you’re reviewing it? Please say it’s being looked at again.’
‘Yes. Yes it is, and I suspect it may be connected in some way to a new case.’
‘Which one?’
‘You were the reporting coroner again, a Mr Colin Day?’
‘Yes, I was, but I’m confused. How could they be connected?’
‘Er…’ Kelly faltered. She didn’t know Ted Wallis at all, and here she was hypothesising with just shreds of evidence and a good old-fashioned hunch. She decided to tell him her theory.
‘Did you hear about the Bosnian woman who abandoned her baby near the Greenside lead mine?’ she asked.
‘Of course. The story was covered on TV.’
‘She said she and her husband were brought from Europe by lorry, but they were tricked and her husband was allegedly forced into another vehicle. We can’t find him, but she remembers that the lorry that brought her up the M6 belonged to a local haulage firm. Then Colin Day dies of a heart attack, induced by the enthusiasm of a young woman named Anushka Ivanov – an illegal. We can’t find her either. She was an employee at the Troutbeck Guest House, less than a mile from the Thwaite Hotel, where Colin Day died. He was the owner of both hotels, plus five others. Colin Day was an astute man, and taped the encounter, possibly for insurance purposes.’ Kelly took a deep breath. ‘I believe Mr Day was running an illegal brothel. There is video evidence and a paper trail to indicate that this is the case. But I think it’s bigger than just a one-man operation. He was turning over hundreds of thousands of pounds a year via an umbrella company in the Isle of Man.’ She was getting used to the financial jargon; before, she’d known nothing of such companies where people could legally dodge tax and other laws.
‘I knew Colin Day personally,’ Wallis said. ‘I don’t know what to say. How does all this link to Lottie?’
‘A man named Darren Beckett knew that Lottie would be eagle-watching that day. Haweswater is isolated and difficult to get to. She needed to be taken away at speed – probably by car. It’s my belief that it wasn’t an opportunistic abduction, and I suspect that Beckett is acting as a go-between for a more serious outfit. He’s disappeared too, though I have evidence that he was sniffing around the Troutbeck Guest House looking for Anushka Ivanov. I believe that if I find Darren Beckett, I find the illegals. He’s my link.’
‘Where do I come in?’
‘I wanted to ask you your personal opinion on Lottie’s cause of death – the things I can’t get from a report. I don’t want science, or medical terminology. Just your thoughts when you examined her.’
‘Well to start with, she had a full face of make-up. I mean, adult stuff, not something a little girl would wear.’
‘As if applied by someone else?’
‘Yes. I remember thinking that she looked like a doll. I’m sorry, it really was the worst case I’ve ever had. When I heard that she could have been taken for some kind of paedophile ring, it sickened me to my stomach. I’ve got two daughters myself. They wasted a lot of time on the father, didn’t they? I always told myself that strangulation would have been quick at her age. I hope I was right.’
‘Mr Wallis, there’s something else you could help me with, if you would.’
‘Of course.’
‘The bright red hairs you pulled from around Mr Day’s wedding band.’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘I managed to gain access to Darren Beckett’s last known address via his landlord in Barrow-in-Furness, and we found long bright red hairs there. They’re at the lab in Carlisle now, but they don’t know me there and it’s taking an age. I’m a newbie round here, I’ve only been back a few weeks. I was wondering if you could speed things up.’
‘You’re looking for a match?’
‘Yes. And a possible DNA profile.’
‘I know the lab well. Consider it done.’
* * *
Ted Wallis sat looking at his phone for a long time after he’d spoken to DI Porter. Eventually he made a call to the lab, who promised him they’d have an answer for him by close of play today.
He couldn’t carry on with his work now. He’d have to go to the flat and look for something.
It had been after a party, some five years ago now. Colin had invited Ted to these affairs because he looked good: professional and authoritative; he liked the kudos that came with influential friends. The party had been a stiff event, and afterwards Ted and Mary were invited back to Colin and Christine’s, along with a few others.
Ted had admired the house and noted that Colin had done rather well for himself, though he never knew how at the time. Perhaps now he was beginning to understand.
The men went off to play snooker in what Colin referred to as the billiards room. It smelled of stale smoke, cigars and whisky, and Ted remembe
red feeling envious of the other man’s wealth and success. The women stayed in the drawing room. Colin was very drunk and the talk turned to sex. Colin asked Ted if he had ever tried Viagra, because he had some rather powerful ones from Germany.
Married to Mary, Ted had about as much use for Viagra as he did for football boots, and he’d laughed and said that sex with Mary wasn’t an option. Instead, Colin had passed him a card. A card that he knew he still had. It was black, and simply embossed in gold with a mobile number and a single word: flower.
Chapter 35
There’d been several sightings of Darren Beckett in Barrow-in-Furness in the past few days, and Kelly considered them. Darren and Nush’s photos had been printed in the Westmorland Gazette and the Evening Mail; they had also been on the evening news. The police had received perhaps a dozen calls. Two stood out.
One was an old school friend who said he’d seen Darren filling his car with petrol in Ulverston; he’d waved but Darren hadn’t responded and the man had got into his car, dismissing the rudeness as pretty normal for Darren Beckett. He described the car as black, small and probably a Ford. He couldn’t remember the night. It might have been 21 September. He wasn’t sure. He had seen Beckett leave the petrol station and turn towards the A590.
The other was an ex-girlfriend who was a timid creature and scared out of her wits. She said she’d seen Darren walking close to Barrow Dock, also on the 21st, but earlier, around eleven p.m. She said his head had been down and his hands firmly in his pockets, but there was no mistake. She’d been with him for two years and she’d never forget him, not after he’d punched her in the stomach when she accused him of stealing from her mother. The woman had been asked how good a likeness to Beckett’s current appearance the photo released by police was. The answer was not a lot. She said he’d grown shaggy hair that covered his eyes, and he looked gaunt, and older. She thought he had been returning to his car, and it stuck in her memory because there was no reason why anyone would be walking down there at night. She’d been stuck at a red light near the museum, and had been staring right at him. Luckily he hadn’t appeared to see her. She was sure about the date because she was covering a late shift for a friend.
She was a credible witness. Kelly knew Barrow Dock; though it was frequented by dog walkers during the day, it was deserted by night. Darren Beckett didn’t strike her as the kind of person who might take a stroll along the promenade to clear his head, nor did he own a dog, as far as they knew, and he certainly wasn’t a fitness enthusiast taking advantage of the long stretch of smooth pathways.
She called Lockwood to see if he could find out if either the garage or the museum had CCTV. The museum didn’t, but the garage did, and it was on a ten-day loop, so film from the 21st should still be there. Lockwood sent a DC to examine it, and got back to Kelly within three hours, having found footage of Darren Beckett filling up a black Ford Fiesta. He also added that he’d taken the liberty of enhancing a still from the footage, and emailed it to her. Kelly faxed it over to the Troutbeck Guest House for the attention of George, and it was also released to the press.
In it, Beckett seemed to be a different person entirely. He appeared frail and hunched over, and looked like a tramp. Kelly guessed that years of drugs and alcohol had taken their toll; he easily looked forty, like the man George had seen at the hotel.
She called Lockwood to thank him. ‘I need another favour,’ she said.
‘No problem. Go ahead.’
‘I think we should lean a bit harder on Dennis Hill while his sister isn’t around.’
‘She won’t like that.’
‘I know, that’s why I’m asking you to do it. I want to push him to see if he can remember anything about Darren. He was friends with Wade, so he might have known Darren too.’
‘OK, I’ll see what I can do. How’s the other case going? Do you still think they’re linked?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve got evidence that a lorry firm is being paid a lot of money from one of Colin Day’s companies, but I don’t know why, and I’ve got video footage of women being paid for sex, though none of them are traceable. Darren and Anushka are my missing link. Her because she is evidence of organised prostitution, and him because he knew Lottie through Wade. If Beckett is working for whoever organised Colin Day’s extracurricular activities- including Day himself- then he would know people who’d snatch a girl to order.’
‘Is this connected to the woman in hospital as well?’
‘I can’t say for sure, but she said she was dropped off by a lorry driver who worked for the same haulage company.’
Lockwood whistled. ‘I didn’t think Darren Beckett had it in him to get involved with the big boys.’
‘When you were in Manchester, did you know anyone who worked trafficking? We certainly don’t have a department like that here, and I could do with throwing my ideas around with an expert. Someone who knows about money trails and how this kind of operation works.’
‘I’ll have a dig around and get back to you.’
‘Thanks, Lockwood. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Call me Craig, Kelly, for God’s sake.’
Kelly rang off and turned back to her computer. A new email pinged into her inbox. It was from the lab in Carlisle. The hairs matched and they’d extracted a DNA profile. It wasn’t in the database, but the contents of Anushka’s bag had been sent off too, and soon she’d know.
Chapter 36
The three men moaned continually through the night, and Darren slept fitfully, knowing that if they could break out of their room, they’d kill him. Curtis had done a good job securing them, but they stank. They weren’t allowed to wash, and every time they wanted to piss or shit, Darren had to escort them to the bathroom with a knife.
Two of them were pretty docile, not wanting to court the danger of further injury to add to those sustained during the fights; but one was a belligerent shit. He stared into Darren’s eyes and never looked away; even when spitting into the sink, he glared at him through the mirror. Darren felt constantly sick, and only vodka took the edge off. He’d eaten some fried chicken when he’d had a chance to leave the flat and try and get into Nush’s room but he’d brought it straight back up. His eyes were sunken and he sweated profusely, despite the evening being bitingly cold.
‘I speak English and hear every word,’ the belligerent man said.
‘Shut your mouth,’ said Darren in reply, bringing the knife up to the man’s back.
‘Why you do this? I see how they treat you, you get all the shit jobs. You’re a pas, no?’
‘Shut up, you fucking Paki or whatever you are,’ Darren spat. He didn’t know what to do.
‘What is Paki?’ asked the man.
‘Scum, migrant, whatever. Fucking hurry up, if you understand English,’ Darren ordered. He felt dizzy.
‘You English think everyone is Paki, you pas glup. Stupid dog.’
The man laughed and Darren punched him in his right kidney. He coughed but he didn’t falter. Darren walked him back to the living room roughly and replaced his gag.
The man looked at the other two, and they nodded back imperceptibly.
The next night, during another bathroom trip, the captive spoke to Darren again.
‘What they pay you?’ he asked.
‘Shut the fuck up, or I’ll let you shit your pants next time!’ Darren had had stomach cramps all day long and hadn’t seen a soul. He was desperate to get out of the flat. Surely a short walk to the corner shop wouldn’t hurt, he thought.
‘I pay more,’ said the captive.
‘How you gonna do that with no fucking money?’ Darren asked.
‘My name is Nedzad. I have money. You like money and you are bored. You are also very ill, my friend.’
‘Shut up!’ Darren was consumed by a coughing fit and the knife fell out of his hand.
‘I have a lot of money in English bank. You see. You know I tell the truth. If they make me fight and I lose, it will sit there forever.’
&
nbsp; Darren stopped coughing.
‘Where?’ he asked. His mind whirred. He knew he was ill. His body was failing him from years of abuse. He’d seen a new picture of himself in the Westmorland Gazette and had taken to wearing a hat and sunglasses together with big jumpers even inside the flat, despite them making him sweat even more. The thought of going somewhere like Thailand and living the rest of his days lying on a beach and paying hookers was an attractive one. Marko would dump him at the bottom of a lake when he’d finished with him, of that he had no doubt.
* * *
Nedzad knew he’d struck a chord and didn’t say another word. It was only a matter of time. He went back to his place obediently and didn’t bite the fucker’s hand like he wanted to. He knew how to play the game. He needed to avoid the evil bastard with the big head and bigger hands.
Darren went to his bedroom and slammed the door. Nedzad raised his eyes to the other two, indicating that the time might come soon. A few minutes after that, they heard another bang; they’d worked out enough about the flat to know that it was the sound of the front door closing. They heard no voices, and Nedzad suspected that it was the stupid dog leaving rather than anyone else arriving.
He retrieved the plastic razor he’d taken from the sink when Darren was having his coughing fit and broke it into pieces, leaving only the blade. He worked quickly, and within five minutes, he was free. Their tethers displayed sloppy work. In his country, hostages would be tied up properly, if they weren’t already dead. He began working on the other two, and the second man was almost free when they heard the door again.
Nedzad took a gamble that it was only the dog returning and not anyone else, and he was right. Darren peered around the door to check that they hadn’t moved, and found all three men where he’d left them, their hands behind their backs, gags in.
Nedzad knew the dog’s routine well and smelled the alcohol on his grimy breath. He would soon be in a stupor, and if they could wait, they’d have more chance of putting distance between them and the flat. He had no idea where they were; all he knew was that it was a fucking cold and miserable place. They were supposed to be heading to London.
