Kissing a Killer

by David Carter

  Nicky Barr looked nervous and scratched his chin.

  Walter stared at the phone, waiting.

  Nicky said, ‘Actually, Guv....’

  ‘Actually, what?’

  ‘There wasn’t a funeral yesterday.’

  ‘There was no Barr family funeral yesterday? What? Not at all?’

  ‘No, Guv. Sorry.’

  The phone rang and the switchboard operator said, ‘I have the crem on the line.’

  ‘Thanks, but I don’t need them any longer. Sorry to have wasted your time.’

  ‘No problem,’ came back the singsong happy voice.

  Walter glared at Nicky and said, ‘So you lied to Gibbons, and you lied to me. In fact you lied to me several times.’

  ‘Sorry Guv, it’s just that the girlfriend....’

  ‘I don’t want to know anything about your bloody girlfriend!’

  Nicky nodded hard and said nothing, which right there was just about the best thing he could have said.

  ‘This office,’ said Walter, wafting his big hand around, ‘spends a great deal of time tracking down liars, tripping up liars, tying them up in their own webs of lies and deceit, so how do you think it looks when one of our own, right here, one of my team, thinks it’s okay to casually tell one lie after another?’

  ‘Not good, Guv.’

  ‘You’re right, DC Barr. Not good! Not good at all. I give everyone who joins this precious band one chance. You’ve just had yours. If I ever catch you lying to me or anyone else in this room ever again I’ll kick your backside all the way to Rhyl and back. You’ll be returned to traffic duty before you could say Llan-bloody-dudno. Is that clear?’

  Nicky nodded slowly again and looked suitably contrite, and muttered, ‘Really sorry, Guv.’

  ‘Go away! See Gibbons, he has important work for you.’

  Nicky nodded fast and hurried off.

  Karen glanced at the departing guy and back at Walter and said, ‘Silly boy.’

  ‘He ruddy well is, but he won’t do it again. I hope.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I have met my share of Smart Alec’s over the years and I can sus them out at fifty paces. It wasn’t that difficult.’

  Karen swigged her water and was keen to change the conversation. He seemed in a real bad mood over something.

  ‘I’ll ring Janice, see if I can get her in today.’

  ‘You do that,’ said Walter, settling down to study the crime reports.

  An hour later a beaming Jenny came over to Walter’s desk and said, ‘I think I’ve got something, Guv.’

  Karen glanced up from the old Michael Flanagan case notes.

  ‘Mirror man?’ mumbled Walter.

  Jenny nodded.

  ‘I can’t find anyone going by the name of Mirror, but I have found a local banker who works for the Anglo-Slavic National Bank. The ASNB, they are based here in Chester, and this guy’s name is Miroslav Rekatic, though he prefers the shortened version of Miro.’

  ‘How old is he? Do you know?’ asked Walter.

  ‘He’s thirty-seven.’

  ‘And what are the chances he’s six feet tall, speaks with an eastern European accent, and has dark hair and eyes, and is vaguely good looking?’ said Karen.

  ‘I can’t comment on the height, but the rest fits like a glove, I’ve cribbed his picture from their website. Here he is, our Miroslav,’ and she set a good colour photo down in front of them.

  ‘I know this ASNB outfit,’ said Karen. ‘It’s one of the new generation of banks that are pushing hard to get a foothold in the UK market.’

  ‘They are,’ confirmed Jenny. ‘Putting new ATMs all over the place.’

  ‘Address?’ said Walter.

  ‘Chester Business Park.’

  ‘Car?’ said Karen.

  ‘Please, unmarked.’

  ‘Shall I see you downstairs?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Be there in a sec, just going to keep Mrs W up to speed.’

  Jenny said, ‘I’ll keep looking, see if I can find anyone else.’

  ‘Do that, Jen. And well done.’

  The huge and sprawling and modern Chester Business Park was located on the southern side of the city, strategically placed for easy access to the road system, with the nearby A55 and A483 dual carriageways funnelling traffic east west and south, and onto the M53, and the national motorway system beyond.

  The modern landscaped site was not far short of 200 acres and was a pleasant place to work, boasting green spaces and lakes and woodland, and it was no surprise that plenty of British, American and European Finance houses and banks had been tempted to set up base there.

  In the short car ride south Karen said, ‘So it looks like Janice misheard Ellie say Mirror when she actually said Miro, you reckon?’

  ‘Looks that way, let’s hope so anyway, and it would be an easy mistake to make,’ and in less than ten minutes they were pulling off the main road and entering the impressive looking park.

  The ASNB building was much larger than expected, and resembled something of a modern glass fronted sports stadium, but oddly fronted with white gothic Romanesque columns flanking the entrance.

  ‘Banking must pay awfully well,’ said Karen, bringing the car to a halt in the large car park, as she glanced up at the vast glass facade.

  ‘We all know that,’ said Walter, thinking of the whacking monthly interest addition on his credit card statement, ‘and yet, it’s constantly a mystery to me as to how they manage to lose so much money, every now and again.’

  ‘Incompetence, do you think?’ said Karen, unable to keep a smile from her fair face, at the thought of it.

  ‘Probably. Maybe the Mirror man will be able to throw some light on that,’ said Walter.

  ‘How are we going to play this, Guv? Interview him here, or back at the station.’

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Here to start with, and if we don’t like what we are hearing, back at our place.’

  ‘Got it in one! And don’t mention that Ellie’s dead,’ Walter said, getting out of the car, and doing up his coat and limping away.

  Inside, the modern hi-tech look was everywhere. Ahead of them was a shiny black reception desk with the obligatory bright young thing on parade, eager and willing and waiting to field their enquiries. Walter and Karen hustled over to the desk and Karen flashed ID and completed the introductions.

  ‘Please show us through to see Mr Rekatic right away,’ said Walter, staring round at the huge pieces of blue, yellow and white modern art that adorned the walls.

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No, we don’t, and we don’t need one,’ said Karen.

  ‘It’s a little unusual.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter. ‘It is. Mr Rekatic please.... now, chop chop.’

  The young woman pulled a face and stared at Walter and realised he wasn’t a man to mess with, and pointed to her right, and at a modern half-glazed door and said, ‘Through there, fourth on the right.’

  ‘A thousand thank you’s,’ said Walter, turning away and limping toward the door that took them through to a wide and long corridor. They could both hear a modern phone burbling away somewhere up ahead, and both imagined it was the young woman alerting her boss that the law was on the way.

  The fourth door on the right was wide open, and inside was a smart man talking on a phone. He was looking at the doorway as if expecting visitors, and sure enough there they were, walking straight in, Karen’s ID on full display.

  ‘Mr Rekatic?’ she said. ‘Mr Miroslav Rekatic.’

  The dark-haired man nodded and said, ‘That’s me, and you are?’

  Karen completed the intros, and Rekatic set the phone down without comment, and came out from behind his desk and closed the office door.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you? I can give you ten minutes. Lots on the go after that, you know how it is.’

  Walter sat in one of the grey and black comfortable visitors’ chair
s, probably cost a fair fortune, as Karen sat down beside him.

  ‘It’ll take more than ten minutes,’ said Walter. ‘Much more.’

  ‘Maybe you should have made an appointment.’

  Maybe you shouldn’t be consorting with young for-sale girls, and I’ll bet you’re a happily married man too, thought Karen, though she kept those colourful thoughts to herself.

  ‘It can be here and now for as long as it takes, or at the station right now, for as long as it takes, I’m not really that bothered,’ said Walter, looking across and into the back of the man’s dark eyes. What was he? Six foot, clean cut, dark hair and eyes, and a noticeable eastern European accent. What a surprise.

  Rekatic sat back in his chair and sighed hard and realised he was in no position to argue.

  ‘Okay. Let’s get to it,’ he said.

  ‘Your name is Miroslav Rekatic?’ asked Karen.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And you’re sometimes known as Miro?’

  ‘Yes, to my friends and acquaintances.’

  ‘Are you also known as Mirror?’ asked Walter.

  Rekatic pulled a face and shook his head. ‘Miro yes, Mirror, no, never. Why? What can I do for you?’

  ‘We want to talk to you about a young woman by the name of Ellie Wright,’ said Karen, as Walter never once took his eyes from the guy.

  ‘Ellie? What about her?’ said Rekatic, warily.

  ‘You do know Ellie?’ asked Karen.

  ‘Yes, I know Ellie. Why? What’s this all about?’

  Walter leant forward and said softly, ‘What is your relationship with Ellie Wright?’

  Rekatic grimaced and shifted in his chair.

  ‘She’s a nice kid. She’s very good company.’

  ‘Good company?’ clarified Karen.

  Rekatic nodded, didn’t say anything, though it was clear he was thinking of saying something further. The officers remained silent, awaiting further comment. Karen nodded, encouraging the man.

  When he did speak he said, ‘It’s a little bit difficult.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Walter. ‘Is it? What is?’ for he was in no mood to make it any easier for the guy.

  ‘If you know Ellie you probably know she’s something of a good time girl.’

  ‘A good time girl?’ said Karen, speaking slowly, each word coming out almost as single short sentence.

  ‘Do I have to spell it out?’

  ‘You do to me,’ said Karen.

  ‘You mean to say, she’s a prostitute?’ said Walter.

  Rekatic nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘We might as well use terms we all understand. The thing I find difficult,’ said Walter, ‘is why a successful businessman like yourself, with a beautiful wife and family,’ and he reached across and picked up the silver plated photo frame that adorned the desk, and glanced at the picture of the attractive blonde woman, and two even more beautiful blonde haired girls, ‘why a man such as yourself should be consorting with street girls at all. Why is that exactly, Miro?’

  Rekatic clicked his tongue and shook his head slowly and said, ‘You know how it is, you’re a man of the world.’

  It was Walter’s turn to shake his head.

  ‘No!’ he said decisively. ‘If I were married to a woman like that,’ nodding at the photograph that he set back on the desk, ‘I wouldn’t look at a street girl in a million years.’

  Rekatic went silent and sat back in his chair. He took a moment out, thinking hard. What the hell was this all about? And why was he even bothering to answer the English police officers’ questions? He’d humour them a little while longer.

  ‘It’s the old thing,’ he said, allowing a crooked smile to invade his fox-like Slavic face. ‘Sometimes when a man doesn’t get what he wants at home he has to look elsewhere.’ His eyes switched from the overweight black man to the underweight English blonde, checking to see if he’d shocked her. He hadn‘t. Not such a surprise. In her line of work she must see all sorts.

  ‘You mean your wife doesn’t like sex,’ said Walter, mischievously. ‘I would never have guessed that from her photograph. That does surprise me.’

  ‘Of course my wife likes sex!’ he said in a hurry, ‘not that it is any business of yours,’ immediately thinking he may have revealed more than he intended.

  ‘But not kinky sex?’ said a stone-faced Karen.

  Rekatic grimaced and put out his hand, palm down over the desk, and twisted it as if to say, close, but not quite right.

  ‘Rough sex?’ said Walter, and Rekatic smiled a cold smile and pointed at Walter as if to say, there’s a man after my own heart, there’s a man who knows.

  ‘How rough?’ asked Karen, not giving him a second to think.

  ‘Well, you know....’

  ‘No, we don’t know,’ said Walter. ‘Not at all. Answer the question.’

  ‘I’m not sure how one would grade these things.’

  ‘On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your meetings with Ellie Wright?’

  ‘Christ! I don’t know.’

  ‘Well I certainly don’t,’ said Karen.

  ‘On a scale from one to ten?’ repeated Walter, keen to not let the guy off the hook.

  Rekatic sighed hard and muttered, ‘Maybe seven or eight.’

  ‘Seven or eight,’ said Walter thoughtfully, pondering on where that took them in the pantheon of rough sex.

  ‘Yeah, about that,’ Miro said, with maybe just a hint of cockiness entering his voice.

  Walter spoke again: ‘And would that include heat.... and burning?’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘I think you know well enough. Miro. Clamps. Hot needles? Electric shocks. Cigarette burns, stubbed out on the skin? Sound familiar?’

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

  ‘Ridiculous, is it?’ said Karen.

  ‘All we are trying to do is fill in the blanks,’ said Walter. ‘Get a clearer picture of what precisely you are talking about, of what exactIy Ellie Wright was expected to accept, and endure, things that your good wife was unwilling to, and I have to say, that so far, you haven’t exactly shed tons of light.’

  Rekatic had had enough.

  ‘I don’t know where you are going with this, but I am not answering any more of your questions until you tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘What is your wife’s name?’ asked Karen.

  That was an easier one.

  ‘Grizelda, everyone calls her Grizzy. She’s German. Why?’

  ‘And what nationality would you be?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Serb. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It goes without saying that you have the necessary work permits?’ asked Walter.

  ‘Course I have! Is this what this is all about?’

  ‘No, not really,’ said Walter.

  ‘Do you want to get to the point?’

  ‘When did you last visit Ellie Wright at the foot of Marigold Lane?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You heard the Inspector,’ said Karen.

  It looked like Miro needed some thinking time on that one, and he got it too, for his phone rang, the landline on the desk before him. Miro grabbed it and yelled: ‘What?’

  ‘Your next appointment is here for your now, Mr Rekatic.’

  It was a good phone system. Crystal clear. Walter and Karen heard every word.

  ‘Cancel it!’

  ‘But I can’t, they have come all the way from Leeds!’

  ‘I said, fucking cancel it!’ bawled Rekatic, as he set the phone down hard. ‘Sorry about that. Work issues. I did tell you I was busy today.’

  ‘So you did,’ said Walter. ‘Now where were we? Ah yes, you were just about to tell us when you last visited Ellie, and what you got up to down by the river.’

  Eighteen

  In the travel agents in the city centre, Lena glanced at her watch. It was coming up lunchtime. She’d rung Bel three times that morning, still without success. Her b
oss came back from the bank and glanced across at an obviously worried Lena, and said, ‘Any news?’

  ‘Not a thing. Still no answer. It simply isn’t like Belinda. You know that, don’t you?’

  The boss man pulled a face and looked up at the wall clock. It was true it had never happened before. On the very rare occasions when Belinda Cooper had fallen ill, bad flu, badly sprained ankle, that kind of thing, she had always without exception kept them fully informed.

  ‘Do you want to go and see if she’s alright?’

  Lena nodded, and said, ‘It would put my mind at rest.’

  The boss nodded too, and said, ‘Fair enough, it’s almost your lunch hour, why don’t you take an early lunch and go and check it out?’

  An incredibly generous offer, thought Lena, sarcastically, and she said, ‘I’ll do that, I’ll get back as soon as I can.’

  The boss man nodded again, and began opening new cardboard boxes full of fresh brochures to restock the shelves.

  ‘Keep me informed,’ he muttered, as Lena collected her things together and slipped on her beige raincoat, and headed for the door.

  It took her no more than twenty minutes to arrive outside Bel’s nice little detached house. All looked quiet and in order from the front. Lena skipped up the short garden path and rang the bell. She heard it clearly enough, but no one came. She stooped and pushed open the old green metal letterbox, and looked inside. She couldn’t see much. There was another internal door maybe four feet away that led to the hall.

  ‘Bel!’ she yelled. ‘It’s Lena. Are you okay?’

  No sound. No reply. No nothing.

  Lena took a step back and glanced up at the bedroom windows. The curtains were drawn. That was a little odd for the middle of the day. She headed round to the side of the house and the side gate. Over the small wall to next door a man came out and began fiddling about with the refuse wheelie bin.

  He peeked over the wall and saw Lena there. He thought he’d seen her once or twice before, and indeed he had.

  Lena caught his eye and said, ‘Have you seen Bel at all? She’s not been at work, and she’s not answering her phone.’

  The man scratched his chin as if thinking, and said, ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her for a few days.’

  ‘Can I get round the back?’ said Lena, trying the side gate that opened easily enough.