She had tried to delve deep within herself, retreat into the distant past, rekindle the spirit of that optimistic little girl she had once been. The happy girl who played with her friends, her neighbours, and believed in wishes and miracles. Who found her home, the village and the world itself to be a good, safe place.
It was a huge effort. That little girl barely existed any more.
Instead other images came to mind. Her village after the soldiers came, after the police. After people she had believed were her friends and neighbours joined them in killing and hurting those they had lived side by side with all their lives. Killing her father. Raping and torturing her mother before finally killing her. Raping and torturing her little sister before finally killing her. Torching her house after looting and ransacking it.
Right before their eyes.
She and her brother had been away on an errand. They heard the commotion on their return and something, she still couldn’t say what, had forced her to grab her brother and jump into a nearby cellar where they hid and watched. Watched with uncomprehending horror as the safety net was removed from her world, as hell and all its demons spewed forth to claim the earth.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Conflicting emotions ran through her like an electric current. She wanted to run to her family, help them. But she knew it would be futile. There was nothing she or her brother could do. Except stay as silent as possible if they wanted to live.
Later they emerged and her new life began. She came to regard the old one as some kind of fantasy, a made-up fairy story to help troubled children sleep at night. And the ending a fable of what would happen if they didn’t. She and her brother went forward from that day carrying equal measures of guilt and relief of survivors like monkeys on their backs.
And carrying something else.
A picture in her mind of the man responsible for the deaths of their family. The man in charge of the unit who destroyed their village. Who laughed as he killed and raped, whose eyes glittered with an evil light reflected from the burning homes. Who looked like the devil personified.
Marco Kovacs.
It was getting dark outside, the day slipping away, the shadows claiming all around.
Katya sipped her coffee. She had switched on the stolen mobile in her pocket an hour previously waiting for the call. Saving the battery, minimizing the possibility of any calls for Donovan of which there were plenty on voicemail. She hoped it would ring before she got to the bottom of her mug. Her money was running out; she couldn’t afford another one. And they were closing soon.
It did.
She could have cried with relief. This was a sign. A sign that the plan was the right thing to do, that God was on their side, that it would be a success.
She scrambled for the phone, checked the display in case the call was for Donovan. It wasn’t. She answered it and heard that familiar voice again. She could have cried at the sound.
She listened. Instructions were given, plans were made. She hung up, turned the phone off, pocketed it. She mouthed the directions of where she had to go. The bookshop next door was still open; she could go and look at a map, memorize the route she had to take.
She drained the frothy dregs from her mug. Her head was spinning now from more than just caffeine. She slid off the window stool. As her feet touched the floor, pain shot up her legs, reminding her of the walking she had done in the previous twenty-four hours and complaining about any further exercise. She didn’t care. It had to be done. Just a little more time, a little more pain, then she could rest for as long as she wanted.
She made her way to the door, heading for the bookshop.
Taking the first step towards the endgame.
*
Donovan and Turnbull were finally making headway. Of a sort.
The darkness had brought the women out, and their punters. The two men were standing on an anonymous, run-down terraced street in the west end of Newcastle, trying to read the situation. On the opposite side of the road, working girls were beginning to appear, bracing themselves for whatever the evening would throw at them. The wind carried ice and the sky the threat of rain, but the girls were showing more flesh than was seasonally prudent. Miniskirts and crop tops to attract the punters, spike stilettos to give them an approximation of a sexy walk.
Or to stop them running away, thought Donovan.
Skin the colour of old mashed potato or plucked goose flesh. Shivering, drawing on their fags, hoping the smoke would fill their bodies with warmth.
‘You see there,’ Turnbull was saying, ‘there’s the girls. Now look at the ends of the street.’
Turnbull flicked his finger, trying not to attract attention to himself. Donovan followed his gaze. In the shadows stood a couple of men. Big, burly and shaven-headed, wrapped in leather and sheepskin. Eyes like attack dogs.
‘See them? They’re the minders. In case the girls get any ideas about runnin’ away. Or refusin’ punters. They remind them who’s boss. What they’re there for.’ He spat on the pavement, like the words had given him a bad taste in his mouth.
‘The girls I’ve been talking to are all indoors,’ said Donovan.
‘Yeah, the brothels. Hard to touch them, or at least the people who own them. They’re protected by papertrails and front men. Always someone to take the rap. Mind, some of the girls have been doin’ this for years. Got a set of clients, work for themselves, manage to make a decent living out of it and know when to get out. Some of them.’ He turned to Donovan. ‘That girl we met you with in the brothel that night. What was she? Russian or somethin’?’
‘Bosnian.’
Turnbull nodded. ‘Figures. Eastern Europe, Africa. There’s no shortage. They’re taken to the brothels by their minders, given a room that they have to pay rent for, told which shifts to work. Told they have to service everyone. Everyone. Whatever they want, no matter how horrible, they have to do it.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Like I said, there’s no shortage. They’re commodities. They’re meat. They’ll throw old meat out that’s past its sell-by date, bring in some fresh stuff. Got to make their profit.’
‘Where do they throw the old meat out to?’
Turnbull shrugged. His shoulders were tight. ‘Who knows? The girls never officially existed here anyway, so they can disappear just as easily. Take a guess. Any one is as good as another.’
‘Sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
Turnbull kept his eyes away from Donovan when he spoke, but he couldn’t keep the anger from his voice. ‘Pimps. Fuckin’ hate them. Men who prey on women. Men who live off women. Turn them on to drugs, on to drink, turn them on to the streets to earn money. Turn them into somethin’ less than human. Scum. Fuckin’ scum.’
‘I’m surprised.’
Turnbull turned to Donovan, faced him then. Fire danced behind his eyes. ‘Why? You think bleedin’-heart liberals’ve got the monopoly on stuff like that? Think all coppers are just loudmouth bastards, takin’ freebies on the side and turnin’ a blind eye? Eh?’
‘OK, OK, fine, I’m sorry. I was just surprised at how … ferocious your response was.’
Turnbull turned away, moved his shoulders as if releasing a stiff muscle or something more pent up. ‘Ferocious.’ He said the word as if he was trying it out for size. Decided he liked it. ‘Yeah. Ferocious. Think you know everythin’. Sometimes you’re so fuckin’ wrong.’
They continued to watch in silence. Cars approached, slowed down. Cars that all looked as if they belonged in a more affluent area. As they approached, the girls, as if on some kind of radar, knew which ones to walk up to. They leaned into the windows, pushing their breasts at the drivers, dredging up smiles, negotiating. A repositioning of the cleavage if the price wasn’t to their liking and then, sale agreed, they would climb in and off they went.
‘Taking their lives in their hands,’ said Donovan.
Turnbull nodded. Donovan couldn’t read what he was thinking.<
br />
A car pulled up to the kerb and disgorged a prostitute, who tottered away on high heels. She offered a little wave to the departing driver, but he sped off too quickly to even acknowledge it. She laughed, shook her head. Took a hip flask from her handbag, took a swig and joined the other girls.
‘There she is,’ said Turnbull. ‘There’s Claire.’
He gave a surreptitious wave at the girl, trying not to attract the attention of the minders. Claire saw him and sighed. She gave a couple of surreptitious glances of her own, then crossed over to meet him.
‘Keep walking,’ she said as she approached the men. ‘Round this corner here at least.’
Donovan looked at her as they walked. She wore the standard whore uniform along with caked make-up and bigger-than-life hair. Cosmetics couldn’t mask the tiredness in her eyes or, as they passed under a streetlight, the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She looked at Donovan, suspicion in her eyes.
‘Who’s this?’
‘This is Joe Donovan. He’s a …’
Donovan hid his smile. Obviously Turnbull couldn’t bring himself to say ‘friend’.
‘… work colleague. We’re workin’ on somethin’ and we thought you could help us.’
Claire smiled. ‘You gonna pay us, then?’
A look of genuine hurt passed across Turnbull’s features. He nodded, eyes averted. ‘Yeah, I’m goin’ to pay you.’ He dug into his pocket, brought out his wallet, handed her two twenties and a ten. The money disappeared on Claire’s person so fast that Donovan could have doubted it had ever actually been there.
‘What d’you want to know?’
Donovan had the envelope of photos in his jacket inside pocket. He brought them out one by one, handed them to Claire. She stood under a streetlight looking at them.
‘We want to know if you recognize any of the girls in the pictures,’ Turnbull said.
Claire made a face. ‘S&M. Don’t go in for that if I can help it.’
Another wince from Turnbull.
‘But d’you recognize any of them?’ asked Donovan.
She frowned as she looked. Paused a couple of times over some shots. Donovan looked at her expectantly, but she passed them over. She finished, handed them back over.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
‘D’you mind looking again?’ asked Donovan. ‘You might have missed someone; something might come to you.’
Claire obliged by looking through them again. As she did so, she asked questions.
‘So what happened to all these girls? They disappeared or something? No, course not. You lot wouldn’t be wastin’ your time on a load of missin’ prossies.’
‘They didn’t disappear,’ said Donovan. ‘We’re just trying to find them. Do a lot of girls go missing?’
Claire shrugged. ‘Kind of job it is, innit? Don’t get a pension with this. Some just pass through, say they’re on their way to London or Edinburgh or wherever. Had one girl said she was goin’ to Carlisle. Talked about it non-stop. God knows what she expected to find there.’
‘And you never hear from any of them again?’
Claire shook her head.
‘What about the Eastern European girls? The Africans? Do they disappear?’
A shadow crossed over Claire’s face. ‘Don’t be askin’ about them. Those bastards that look after them are hard fuckers. You don’t cross them. Don’t even mix with them if we can help it. Those girls suffer.’
‘Why doesn’t someone say something? Do something?’
‘Get real. Who wants to get involved with that lot?’ She looked at Turnbull. ‘Not very bright, your mate, is he?’
‘No,’ said Turnbull, ‘he’s not.’
She handed the photos back to Donovan. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s OK.’ Donovan pocketed them.
‘Maybe you should try the other side of the water. Plenty of girls there. Mind, sometimes they seem further away than Eastern Europe or Africa.’
Donovan nodded his thanks.
Claire looked around. ‘Listen, I’d better be gettin’ back. Nice to see you, Paul.’ She gave Turnbull a kiss on the cheek. He gave her a hug that, Donovan thought, he would rather not let go from. She pulled away, made her way down the street on her tottering heels.
‘Oh, well,’ said Donovan when she had rounded the corner, ‘it was a good try.’
Turnbull nodded, his eyes pools of private sadness.
‘How d’you know her, then?’ asked Donovan.
‘Mind your own fuckin’ business.’ He began to walk away.
Donovan decided to leave it. He hurried along, caught up with him.
‘Fancy a pint?’
Turnbull nodded.
‘Come on, then.’ They walked off. Further along the street, a thought occurred to Donovan. ‘Disappearing girls.’
‘What?’ grunted Turnbull.
‘Disappearing girls. I wonder if it’s anything to do with the case you were working on.’
Turnbull shrugged.
Donovan made a mental note: ask Katya. When he next saw her.
Turnbull stopped walking, looked at Donovan, something building inside him. ‘What d’you want? Ay? Now. What d’you want?’
Donovan looked at him, taken aback. ‘Now?’ he replied. ‘I want to find Michael Nell, or at least the girls in the photos. Then I’ll have done my job. Then I can go home.’
‘That’s it? Do your job and go home?’
Donovan shrugged. ‘Yeah.’
‘Thought you were one of those glory boys. Want to be there in the thick of it, showin’ us how to do our jobs, getting the adrenalin rush. That’s how you used to be. How you were when I first met you. You’re tellin’ me you don’t want to be out there, huntin’ for Nell? Findin’ the killer?’
It was an honest question and it deserved an honest answer, Donovan thought. About past cases he had worked on. The adrenalin rush he had experienced from them. From being tied to a chair facing a killer.
Then he thought of David, his lost face swimming into vision.
Then Jamal, the boy he had to look after now, bring up as best he could.
‘Just do my job and go home,’ he said.
Turnbull looked at him as if not trusting in the answer he had heard. ‘Thought you had passion. Commitment. Whatever else, thought you had that.’
‘I do,’ said Donovan. ‘But I’ve also got responsibilities.’
Turnbull stared at him.
‘You don’t believe me?’ Jamal’s face dancing before his eyes.
Turnbull shrugged. ‘Let’s go to the pub.’
Donovan nodded.
They kept walking, each in their own silence.
Donovan thinking about Turnbull’s words, wondering whether the answer he had given had been the true one.
Turnbull thinking about something too deep for Donovan to fathom.
Peta looked up and down the corridor, checking for security guards, students, lecturers. Anyone who would find her actions suspicious. Her actions of breaking into a lecturer’s office.
When night had fallen, the campus had emptied as if in response to an unspoken curfew. Outside, occasional beams from security guards’ torches swung over the courtyard, like searchlights in an old Second World War POW film.
Peta had sat in the refectory, watching the main door until activity around it had eventually ceased, including the departure of the Prof. In what had been a moment of almost Casablanca loneliness she had been the last to leave. Chairs were placed on tables, the floor mopped, meaningful glances were exchanged between herself and the serving staff. All the scene needed was some minor chorded Hoagy Carmichael tinkling piano and it would have been complete. The fact that the furniture was all plastic and Formica, the mop stank of some industrial cleaner that was probably declassified MoD baby deformer from the Gulf War and the server was one of two scowling migrant women who just wanted to finish up and go home all spoiled the illusion somewhat.
She had left the refectory and, dodging the searchligh
ts, made her way to the main building. Inside, the corridor was striplit and long-shadowed. Peta’s footsteps had given out lonely echoes as she had walked slowly and warily up and down, satisfying herself that she was alone in this stretch of the building.
She turned off the overhead lights in the section containing the Prof’s office, continued in darkness. Seen from outside, the darkness would look accidental – a power failure or a blown bulb. She stood outside the door, lightly perspiring, shaking slightly from adrenalin. She took deep breaths, controlled herself, channelled the adrenalin, worked with it.
The Prof hadn’t been back to his office in all the time she’d been watching it. He had gone home, she was sure of it.
She hoped she was sure of it.
Her fingers dexterously worked the lockpick. A career burglar she had once been professionally acquainted with had provided her tools. He had felt she had been honest and fair with him and had taken a bit of a shine to her. When he found himself facing a sizeable stretch, he had asked her to take care of his tools for him. She had been surprised at the request but pleased and even honoured to do so. When the burglar had died after a year in prison from a particularly virulent cancer, she had held on to them, teaching herself how to use them, for fun at first but eventually in memory of him. She had an aptitude for it. And she enjoyed it, carried them in her bag always.
And she had never been locked out again.
She slowly and delicately probed, felt metal move against metal, teeth fall gently into place. She tried the handle. It turned. She opened the door and was in.
She looked around the room. It was as she had last seen it: a pop culture/psychology car crash shrine. She checked the desk: nothing out of place. She checked the drawers: locked.
She scanned the room, unsure what she was looking for: something that would jump out at her, something that would feel wrong. She didn’t find it.
Taking out the lockpicks again, she crossed to the desk and sat down at the chair. Putting the desk lamp on and pulling it close to minimize any light seeping into the corridor, she opened the top drawer. Stationery, Post-It notes, pencils and dust. The usual top-drawer clutter. She worked her way down, tried the second drawer. Papers, work-related files, assessments. She resisted the temptation to look at her own. The third drawer. More of the same. The fourth.
Bone Machine Page 30
