‘The man’s a gangster. Triad boss. And you want to act on his say-so?’
‘That’s what we do with Sarb—with official informers, sir. We—use the information of scrotes to catch other scrotes. And if a man like Choi goes to the trouble of contacting Dave at home—’
Smith smiled, a smile so infinitely charming and tender that Kate wanted to leap across the room and tell Zayn not to trust him. ‘If you say so,’ he said, suddenly quiet. He turned to the water-chiller and poured two cups. ‘Come on, let’s drink, to a truce.’
The mean bastard! What a petty piece of revenge for Zayn’s loyalty. He was going to see whether Zayn was still fasting, against the terms he’d set for joining the MIT. And Kate didn’t know Zayn well enough to know whether he’d kept his word to her and given up. She didn’t want him to lie: she didn’t want him to be bollocked if he wouldn’t.
Yes, she’d done this once at school in a critical moment before a history test: she could do it again now, whatever it did to her
dignity. Leaping on to a chair, she screamed, ‘There! There!’ She pointed to an invisible rodent, tracing its journey with a shaking finger.
Yes. Quite a lot of other folk saw it too. There was much moving of furniture. And then—truly the gods of justice must have been on her side today—someone pointed to a so far vacant mouse-trap under a cupboard.
By now she was at Zayn’s side. ‘Just get the fuck out of here. And you too, Dave. Wait for me in the first interview room on the right.’ They moved.
‘I’d rather not have had to pull the hysterical-woman trick,’ she admitted with a grin, a couple of minutes later, ‘but I reckon I owed you both—standing up to Smith like that. What exactly did Sarbut say, Dave?’
‘Not much. He was obviously talking from his casino. Just that he was concerned that not everyone was as they appeared to be on the surface.’
‘I’m sure the oracle at Delphi might have come up with some-
thing just as useful,’ she said. ‘He didn’t amplify, I suppose?’ Dave shrugged. ‘Ever tried pressing Mr Choi for details?’
‘So you and Zayn see this as a hint that someone we’re working with isn’t kosher?’
Zayn grinned. ‘Or, indeed, halal.’
‘And since Jews and Muslims aren’t the only ones keen on throat-cutting,’ Dave said, ‘you can see why we don’t want people from this Albanian mob—Mihail or anyone else—to see you.’
‘Thanks, both of you. It’s not easy standing up to Smith. God, what a pillock! Trouble is, I don’t know how long his memory is.’
‘I’d rather he bore me a permanent grudge than got your throat sliced for you, gaffer.’
Zayn nodded in solemn agreement. The room was suddenly full of emotion. If she couldn’t, deal with it, how could she expect them to? She managed a wicked grin. ‘Even if that would be halal—’
‘Or kosher!’ Zayn flung back.
‘I’ll talk to Oxnard,’ she said. ‘Off you go. Oh, Zayn! Hang on!’
Hand on door, he turned back.
‘Got time for a cuppa?’ she risked.
‘Love one,’ he said. ‘But I hear they’ve got rodents in the canteen, and I’d scream if I saw one.’ He smiled again, as if they were mates. Then, his face serious, he added, ‘Eid started a few hours back, gaffer. I wouldn’t let you down.’
‘It’s already started? Shouldn’t you be with your family? It’s like us working on Christmas Day!’
‘And have you never worked on Christmas Day? Course you have. There’ll still be some food waiting when I get home. My mum’ll see to that.’
‘I’m sure she will. Has she seen to anything else, by the way?’
‘Funny thing. The other day I met this cracking young Asian DC just as I came in. She says she’s from your old CID section. I’ll have to get our mums to introduce us properly!’ He smiled and was gone.
That was a nice thought, him and Fatima, who was bright and Muslim and nice.
But she didn’t have long to indulge it. As she emerged, she heard her name bellowed down the corridor. It was Oxnard in full throat, and it was impossible, as always, to gauge his mood.
‘I wouldn’t have put you down for a woman scared of a mouse, Power.’
‘I’m certainly scared of maggots. You may have heard the story.’
‘I have. And heard the rumour that you went and got everything sorted and won some bloke’s fishing contest for him by warming his maggots in his mouth.’
‘The last bit’s pure fantasy,’ she admitted. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you, gaffer?’
‘We’re putting that Mihail character in an interview room with a two-way mirror. Your lads making that fuss, Kate: nice to see they’re so loyal when they’ve hardly met you.’
She ignored the barb—if barb it was. ‘It’s a good team down at Scala House. I shall be glad when I can stop hiding from Albanians. It’d be nice to work there full-time and do it justice.’
‘Anyway, someone’ll give you a bell and you can go and watch if you want. And listen in, of course.’
She thought of her lads’ loyalty. Keeping an eye on them wasn’t the best way to inspire their trust. She shook her head. ‘They’re good officers. They’ll know where to find me if they need me. I’d do better to read what else Meg’s got out of Natasha.’
‘But you were with her only yesterday.’
‘It took all my time and effort to get that ID out of her. If ID it was. I didn’t make any progress with her peregrinations round Europe.’
‘There are times, young Kate,’ Oxnard admitted, ‘when I can see why Neville thinks the sun shines out of your arse.’
It was a long e-mail. Goodness knew what time Meg and Madame Constantinou had finished work last night, and when Meg had managed to transcribe the results of their interview. She printed it off and walked slowly back to the incident room, reading as she went.
The last part of Natasha’s narrative that Kate recalled was that the child was in Rome, reunited with Vladi, who had obtained illegal papers so that she could meet his family in London. He’d driven her himself (Meg had added, in parenthesis, that Natasha seemed to think this a great privilege, and perhaps it was, compared with being shoved on board an inflatable boat) as far as Brussels. He’d toyed with taking her to Bruges, but some phone call had upset him, and instead he’d taken her shopping for a suitcase, which she’d hoped he’d fill with expensive clothes. He hadn’t. He’d taken her to one of the poorer suburbs and bought cheap stuff from shops run by black people. Not much, just enough to fill the case, which was very small.
Just enough to convince Immigration she was a bona fide visitor, Kate thought. She realised she’d stopped walking. She might as well stand where she was and read the rest.
Then Vladi’d had another phone call, and he’d taken her to the station and put her straight on a train to Ostend. He’d written the phrases she needed to use and the words she was to look for on pieces of paper. She was very frightened. He’d given her a ticket for a ferry and a train ticket to London.
Travelling all that way on her own! The poor kid. And what was there when she got to London?
A man called Haxhi, who was Vladi’s brother, had met her at the appointed place in Victoria station, but he was very cross because she was late. But it was the train’s fault, not hers. She had sat for hours on it, knowing she’d get into trouble, but it truly wasn’t her fault.
He’d taken her to London, but it wasn’t a fine city, not like they’d promised. There were rows and rows of houses all joined together, and very few English people. They were all mixed up, white and black and brown, and she was very scared and very angry.
Hmm. Didn’t Kate recollect racist abuse for black footballers playing in Eastern Europe? Presumably Natasha hadn’t seen non-white faces before.
But at least Haxhi, Vladi’s brother, didn’t hit her. He didn’t punish her at all. But that was because he wanted her to have a nice body so she could work straight away in a strip bar. She ha
d to earn her keep till Vladi arrived.
Surprise, surprise.
It was at this bar that she had met Joe and fixed her escape.
And that was it. No doubt hysterics or sleep had stopped the tale. Haxhi. Well, it didn’t sound a common name, but who was she to judge? Sadly, slowly, she returned to the incident room. It was time to do a little delegation on her own account. Whoever was chasing up the Vladi lookalike with Interpol might as well look up friend Haxhi, too.
So far, so good. She’d try phoning Meg again. The phone was still taking messages.
Kate really was halfway through the reading matter for the following morning’s meeting when the news came through. They’d got a positive ID for the body in the lorry: Joseph Gardner, a man with a slightly dodgy past, according to the Met. He’d been moderately kind and generous once, and he’d paid the price.
‘If the Albanians can track him down and deal with him like that, they must have pretty efficient communications. Looks as if NCIS was right about them being a vicious load of bastards, too,’ Kate observed, glancing up from her pile of bumf.
‘Oh, you are part of the meeting, are you, Inspector Power?’ DO Smith enquired. ‘I thought you were reading the Sunday sups.’
‘I thought I might as well,’ she retorted, ‘but now I’ve read my horoscope I can give you my full attention.’ Since she was holding the official papers at an angle where most of the room could identify them at a glance, she earned a general guffaw. ‘Anyway, this firm that Joe was working for: weren’t they rather alarmed about the loss of a lorry? After all, it’s not like someone nicking an old Mini. Why didn’t they report it, rather than waiting for us to tell them where it had gone?’
‘Funny you should ask that,’ Rod’s friend Howard said, ‘but the forensic team—both ours and the fire service’s—have always insisted that the lorry was normal, with no hidden places for tucking in half a dozen poor buggers who want to get from A to B.’
‘They do admit it’s theirs?’
‘Oh, yes, and they want a crime number so they can claim on their insurance. We’ve now spoken to quite a few of their, casual drivers, and each and every one denies operating any sort of taxi service for potential prostitutes. I think we can accept Natasha’s story. But we do have leads on a number of other petty crimes, so we’re keeping an open mind. Meanwhile, our Manchester colleagues are simply keeping an eye open for an influx of Eastern European tarts. And will be interested to see how they get there.’
‘If their papers are as good as Natasha’s, by Virgin train,’ someone said.
There was a guffaw. And a response: ‘No, they want to get them there on tithe.’
A movement at the back of the room turned heads. Zayn and Dave appeared.
‘Well?’ Smith demanded.
‘Nothing to report so far, gaffer.’ Dave stepped forward. ‘All we’ve managed is a nice friendly chat about why he’s here, how he passes his time and so on. He’s a postgraduate student at Birmingham University. Linguistics. So he earns a bit on the side as an interpreter.—does a lot of work for the Chamber of Commerce, too.’
‘What do the university people say about him?’
‘We’ve only spoken to one of them so far—his PhD supervisor—and he says he’s an excellent student.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Get on to the others.’
‘It’s Sunday, sir.’
‘So bloody what if it’s Sunday?’
‘All the admin people are at home, sir. We can’t get at any information about phone numbers or addresses till tomorrow.’ Kate’s mobile rang.
‘Oh, switch the fucking thing off!’ Smith snapped.
‘I’ll take it outside.’ She was already half-way to the door. ‘You’re in an important meeting, Inspector.’
She thrust the mobile at Zayn. ‘Go and take the call, will you? And yell if it’s Meg.’ What was in this man’s head?
The scent of victory, perhaps. ‘OK, ladies and gentlemen, that’s it for now. Unless anyone has any problems.’
His tone didn’t exactly invite questions, but she’d raise one, all the same, and not out of malice. ‘Sorry, sir, but the child-prostitute case seems to be hi-jacking our inquiry. Is there as yet any real connection with Phil Bates’s death?’
Chapter 23
‘I do so like it when people ask Emperor’s New Clothes questions,’ Howard said, leaning back expansively after a canteen lunch. ‘And that was a beaut. You should have been there, Rod. I thought Smith’d have apoplexy.’
Rod grinned. ‘I’d have given my teeth, but there was a load of paperwork on my desk and I don’t want to cramp anyone’s style, yours, Kate’s or Smith’s. Now—’
His mobile chirruped discreetly. He turned away to take the message. His face tightened as it always did when he heard stomach-churning news. ‘I’ll have to love you and leave you,’ he said, standing. ‘I’ve got to set up another team straight away. No, nothing to do with our present inquiry, I’d say. Bad enough in its own right. Asian man about Zayn’s age—and what a nice lad you’ve got there, Kate—goes home for Eid to find his wife and two children stabbed to death.’
‘Racist?’
‘I’m keeping the proverbial open mind, Howard.’ He must have realised how prim he sounded. ‘Ready to nail the bastard whatever the motive,’ he added, with a grim, apologetic smile ‘So expect me whatever time you see me tonight, both. Leave me the Smart, Kate, and treat Howard as an armed escort. If anyone starts spreading rumours, ask them how many fingers they can count.’
‘The rumours’ll be seething already,’ she said, with a rueful laugh. ‘Smith made a fuss about my taking a call so I got Zayn to take it. It was Graham on the line.’
‘Kate’s ex,’ Rod explained parenthetically. ‘I must dash. I’ll
phone about a meal If I don’t, make her cook, Howard—she’s far better than she admits.’
‘As you saw from last night’s takeaway.’ Kate grinned. ‘Tell me, though, Howard, since Smith couldn’t, how much of this is about a prostitution racket and how much about my missing constable? You see, I’d love them to be connected but there’s these time gaps There’s about four hours between Natasha escaping from Joe and finding me And—’
‘What does she say about them?’
‘You know, we still haven’t bloody well tied her down. She will only tell her story in chronological order, detailed chronological order at that I was hoping that call I told Rod about was from the sergeant trying to deal with her. I wanted information on the interpreter my two lads interviewed this morning.’,
‘Hmm Smith was jumping the gun a bit there, wasn’t he’
‘Possibly. But maybe we all are Phil Bates gets killed some time during his Sunday-night shift Joe’s murder and the lorry fire aren’t until days later. Are we sure there’s a connection’
‘We don’t know that there isn’t one, that’s for sure What’s your gut feeling Connection or no connection’
‘Connection I’d say that the gang tracked Joe through the club, if he was a regular, found out his route and killed him very publicly as a warning to others. But we have to keep an open mind or we’ll miss things We all know that I mean, we’re busy sniffing round Mihail but he may be a perfectly decent ordinary student’
‘You’d prefer it to be the other interpreter Madame Thingy.’
‘Well, it was only her dog’s throat that was cut, not hers. And it wasn’t a major fire. And she now knows an awful lot. I don’t want it to be her—but…’ She shrugged ‘Another coffee?’
‘No, thanks I’m up to my caffeine level. And I’d say you were, too.’ He leant forward, putting his hand on the back of her chair. ‘You may hate me for saying this, but I’ll say it anyway. Rod’s a mate of mine I rate him I want him to be happy. Now, not a lot of police relationships survive tension, stress, ill-health. One thing that reduces stress in one partner is to have someone loving and supportive at home cooking healthy meals. OK, Rod is paid a lot of money to risk
having a coronary. I’ll grant you that. But I suppose you couldn’t…?’
‘I may cook better than I admit,’ she said, smiling down her anger and outrage, ‘but not well enough to be a wifey sort of partner.’
He nodded. ‘And it was a fucking cheek of me to suggest it—I know! But I am going to suggest something else. This is the second rest day in a row you’ve missed right?—and you’re supposed to be running a nick the remainder of the week. Most people would regard that as a full-time job. Do yourself a favour and work out how many hours’ kip you’ve had this week. If you start breaking up, what’ll that do to Rod?’
‘Who said anything about breaking up? Or down or whatever?’ She found it hard not to yell at him.
‘No one. But week of Smith playing silly buggers on top of a week’s work doesn’t sound a prescription for health and happiness to me.’
‘And in a murder inquiry health and happiness are important?’ She was on her feet, still managing—just—to keep her voice in check.
He produced a disarming smile. But his voice and eyes were completely serious as he said, Of paramount importance. After all, Phil Bates is dead and you, Kate, and my old mate Rod are still alive. Think about that.’ He turned on his heel and strode briskly from the canteen.
She was baffled. Should she run after him and yell? What for? Stating the obvious? No, she’d better leave him with his exit line and admit the sense behind it. Tired? She was knackered. Absolutely knackered. And now she had to face cooking a meal for a stranger who’d known Rod for ages. She didn’t even know what Rod had in the freezer. If she wasn’t careful she’d bloody weep.
She breathed out carefully. That was how the shrinks said you
dealt with stress, not by deep breaths in but by strong breaths out, relaxing. Relaxing toes, hands, face—until the damned mobile goes off.
‘Kate? It’s Meg here.’
Power Shift Page 22
