Unspoken Truths

by Liz Mistry

  Compo nodded, ‘Yeah, I know. Recognise the ring tone – The Bitch Is Back – good one.’

  Gus sent it to voicemail. She wouldn’t give up – not when she had a fidget in her corset. There was no one more persistent than his ex-wife.

  Gus and his team made their way through the driving snow to the inner cordon which was down an incline made slippery by activity. He nodded at the young officer guarding entry, ducked beneath the tape and began to walk over the blocks distributed by the CSIs to make a walkway over the scene without damaging evidence.

  His phone rang again. Gus took a deep breath and, ignoring Compo and Taffy’s smirks, counted to three. ‘You’d think she’d be too busy spa-ing or cocktailing or drinking Guinness or something to bother about Daniel’s damn stag do.’

  They walked towards the sandstone waiting room of the Ingrow, Worth Valley Railway station with its blood red doors contrasting sharply with the drifting snow. Gus had fond memories of journeys on the Worth Valley steam trains. He imagined many a child pictured themselves as Harry Potter as the train driver’s papped their horns and let out blasts of steam before leaving the platform. Shame this visit wasn’t going to be as enjoyable. Hissing Sid’s team had erected a white tent to the right of the entrance. With the current weather, it rather resembled an igloo. Whilst the body would be protected from the on-going weather conditions, the surrounding crime scene was at risk of being obliterated with snow. Already Gus could see that many yellow markers had been all but covered in drifts. He only hoped the CSIs had been able to obtain something worthwhile, though he doubted it.

  Poking his head through the tent flap, Gus waved to Sid who was working inside the tent. A loud Scottish voice boomed from inside making them jump, ‘That you, Angus laddie?’

  Gus scowled, does he have to be so damn loud? Turning to Taffy, he said, ‘Go and check what the uniforms have for us… oh and see if there’s any hot drinks going, Compo will need one in a bit… lots of sugar.’

  He swept the curtain aside and stepped into the confined space, wishing there was more air inside. His dad’s massive frame was crouched, obscuring most of the body. Gus was pleased about that. Ease the lad in, so to speak. He hesitated by the tent flap, giving Compo time to adjust. From here, all they could see was a hand stretching out to one side and a head with long hair, darkened by the wet snow, facing away from them. ‘When we approach focus on one part of the body at a time. Don’t look at the face. Not till you’ve seen everything else. It’ll be easier that way.’

  Compo nodded, his eyes wide. Gus gave him a few more seconds, then stepped forward. The snow around the woman was stained red, as was the front of her coat. Her feet were bare. He raised a hand in greeting to his dad. ‘Gun shot or stab wound?’

  Dr McGuire hefted himself to his feet, breathing heavily with the effort, ‘Stab wounds – lots of them, look.’ He pulled the coat open, revealing that she was naked. Her body was a mass of stab wounds and, what looked like, cigarette burns. ‘Won’t know which wound actually killed her till the PM but my bet’s on this one – straight to the heart.’

  Gus risked another quick glance at Compo, who was breathing slow and deep, his eyes trained on the body. Good for you Comps. Proud of you.

  ‘She’s been beaten around the legs and feet too.’ Dr McGuire pointed at the soles of her feet that also had multiple slashes over them. One toe nail was ripped completely off. She was of slim build, but not emaciated. Through her wounds, Gus couldn’t see any tracks, so perhaps she wasn’t a drug addict.

  ‘Tortured.’ It wasn’t a question. Gus had seen these kinds of injuries before, but not usually on women. More often on men… usually gang members who’d broken the rules. Dr McGuire nodded.

  ‘Her face?’ asked Gus. Sometimes what had been done to the face was an indication of whether it was a personal motive or not.

  Without speaking, Dr McGuire gently leaned over and, as if soothing a crying child, wiped the sodden hair from her bruised cheek. Gus lifted his gaze to her face. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  He stumbled backward and grabbed his father’s arm. Dr McGuire took one look at his son’s ashen face. ‘What the bloody hell’s wrong, Angus?’

  Gus shook his head. ‘Don’t you recognise her?’ His voice came out husky and weak so he swallowed, wishing he had a drink to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. ‘We know her.’

  The doc looked at the girl with a frown and shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea who she is.’

  Compo, pale but composed, put his hand on Gus’ arm, ‘Who is it, Gus?’

  Gus jerked his arm away and took another step back. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs; the tent was too white... too hot... too stifling. A vice tightened on his rib cage, squashing his lungs, forcing his heart to thud. His breathing became shallow and rasped, raw against his throat. White flecks peppered his peripheral vision. Was it snowing in the damn tent? His ears filled with cotton wool. The sounds of the wind and people talking faded away. His cheeks were on fire and dizziness swarmed over him like angry bees, their buzzing magnified against the absence of other sounds. Ghostly faces floated above him, their mouths opening and shutting like marionettes. He began to pant. Just when his body began to slip to the ground, his Dad was there. He always was. Taking Gus’ weight against his strong frame. Firm arms round his waist, his Scottish brogue familiar and comforting. The scent of pipe tobacco combined with soap and water, soothing.

  ‘Breathe Angus, breathe. Slowly. That’s it.’

  Bit by bit, his breathing slowed and his chest loosened. He struggled upright and glanced round. The crime scene investigators who had stopped working, now turned away and a low hum of normality returned to the tent. Shit! Of all the places to have one of the worst panic attacks ever, he had to choose a damn crime scene with countless people around. He took a final deep breath and raised his voice. ‘Sorry!’

  Still shaking, Gus studied the young woman lying in the melting snow. There was no doubt in his mind, despite the bruising. ‘It’s Izzie Dimou.’

  ‘Who?’ Dr McGuire lumbered forward and peered at the woman’s swollen face.

  ‘Daniel’s fiancée.’

  As if willing it not to be true, Dr McGuire said. ‘No? Are you sure? You’re going to be best man at their wedding next weekend.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ With a pulse throbbing at his temple, he leaned over and closed her eyes just as The Bitch is Back started up.

  Turning away from Izzie, his dad and Compo, he made his way out of the tent, welcoming the frigid air as he answered. Before he had a chance to say anything Gabriella was in full flow.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day, Gus. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Em…’

  ‘My delightful sister-in-law-to-be hasn’t turned up for the hen weekend that took me so long to plan. She’s not even answering her phone or been in touch or anything. And the weather’s crap. We can’t even get out of the hotel.’

  ‘Gabriella…’

  ‘It’s a damn cheek Gus and now I can’t get in touch with Daniel either. And I bet you’ve not even organised the stag do. Bet you’re hoping they’ve eloped so you can get out of writing the speech – I know you’ve been moaning to Katie about it…’

  Gus visualised her hip thrust forward, one hand resting on it, long fingernails tapping the side of the phone and that impatient narrowing of the eyes that she had down to perfection. Someone was in trouble and he was glad that, for once, it didn’t appear to be him. ‘Will you just…’

  ‘Inconsiderate. You’ll need to—’

  ‘Fucking shut up, Gabriella. Just shut the fuck right up.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence. ‘Don’t you…’

  ‘Will you let me fucking speak? Is Katie there?’

  ‘No, she’s gone for a sauna.’

  Gus groaned. This wasn’t ideal but he’d just have to do it. ‘Look Gabriella. I’m at a crime scene.’

  ‘Well, you can go after—’

&n
bsp; ‘No, Gaby – it’s Izzie… the body’s Izzie’s.’

  Silence.

  Fuck, he shouldn’t have told her like this. Should’ve waited till he could speak to Katie first. ‘You still there Gaby? You okay?’

  There was the sound of talking in the background, weeping, before Katie’s voice. ‘I’m here now, Gus. I’ve got it. I’ll look after her – you just do your job, okay?’

  Still holding the phone to his ear, not feeling the cold or the snow settling on his dreads, Gus wanted to scream. Rage swelled in chest. Who the fuck would do this to Izzie? Clever, beautiful and about to become a member of his family. What had happened here? He remembered the last time he’d seen her alive. Sipping champagne with Daniel at the Paprika Lounge, teasing him about her husband-to-be for his shyness in her accented English and looking so happy… just like any bride.

  His dad and Compo approached from the tent. ‘Fucking hell, how am I going to tell Daniel? What am I going to tell him?’

  He tipped his head back, savouring the icy softness of the snow against his cheeks. ‘She shouldn’t even be here. She was supposed to be in Dublin for her hen party weekend. Why the fuck is she lying dead in there, when she should be getting pissed in bloody Dublin?’

  Life was too short and it was full of shit!

  11

  13:30 Rubeus Pharmaceutical Headquarters, Manchester

  ‘S-s-something’s happened …’

  The slight stammer on the first word, followed by the trailing away of the second, told Jordan Beaumont that something had, indeed, ‘happened’. But what? Beaumont leaned back in his chair and swivelled towards the window, taking in the blight that was The Beast from the East. From his office, the only identifiable thing was an impenetrable barrier of snow, framed by zig-zag icicles hanging from the window frame. Looks like he’d be stuck here for the night. On the upside, so would his delightful PA, Mark. Who knows what might happen?

  For a moment he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining breaking off one of the icicles and plunging it deep into the carotid artery of the idiot on the other end of the phone. He allowed the silence to continue, letting it stutter down the line like British Rail on a go slow, until the other man broke the tension with more inane words.

  ‘S-s-something's gone wrong.’

  Now, the stammer was worse. My, my, it must be something bad. Spinning back towards his desk, Jordan lifted his feet up and rested them on a pile of papers. Keeping his voice level, he instilled as much iciness into his reply as The Beast outside was inflicting on the traffic. ‘Go on.’

  The man on the end of the phone exhaled. Imagining the other man’s foul breath, Jordan grimaced. That’s what you got with Romanians. The foreigner really was a vile creature and Jordan rued the day he’d enlisted him. Full of melodrama, but lacking in finesse. The only positive thing he could say about him was that at least he and his mates had no aversion to getting their hands dirty – for a price.

  The answer came at last; a tissue thin whisper. ‘She’s dead. Well we think it’s her. Must be her.’

  Jordan removed his legs from his desk and stood up. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. Not what he’d been expecting at all. Sweat pooled under his armpits as he began to pace the room. He’d expected her to get hurt, of course he had. She wasn’t about to give them the information they needed without putting up a bit of a fight, but they’d held a key card, so he’d been optimistic. He’d assumed he was going to be told that she was being difficult. Digging her heels in, not giving them what they wanted. He hadn’t expected them to go and kill the bitch.

  What was he going to do now? He needed to keep calm. Needed to work things out. Find out all the facts and go from there. He was good at this sort of thing, good at analysis. It was his job after all. Forcing himself to remain calm, he used the tone he would with his daughter when he wanted to placate her. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘We follow her – like you said. Thought she’d head straight to get whatever you wanted, but she ran. She must have seen us...’

  Jordan wasn’t surprised she’d clocked them – dirty looking thugs, all nicotine stained fingers, stubble and joggers. She’d have been hard pushed not to be able to work out they were the ones keeping tabs on her. Should’ve paid a bit more and got some professionals – ones who’d blend in. Hell, shouldn’t have told her I had eyes on her.

  ‘… but it wasn’t us that killed her. Two Cypriot guys stole her – Turkish banditti – beat us up a bit too. They must’ve done it.’

  Fuck’s sake, this was worse than he’d thought. Turks snatching her? That was bad news. Jordan slid back onto his chair and glowered out the window. He had to get to the bottom of this – especially if the Turks were involved. ‘Start at the beginning and don’t miss anything out.’

  Voice shaking, the caller continued. ‘My uncle and friend pick up the other package and deliver it as planned.’

  ‘What about the girl?’

  ‘She left your building and went to Victoria station, just like you said. She dodged onto fucking stupid cross-country train instead of direct one to Bradford, so we lose her at Victoria. But that was alright. We had plan.’

  Jordan shook his head. The trouble with idiots was that they always had a plan and inevitably their plans failed.

  ‘We Googled train route and phoned Ivo’s cousin.’

  This was becoming more and more worrying. Too many people were involved and when you were dealing with illegals, loyalty went down the kazi. He sharpened his tone. ‘Get to the damn point.’

  ‘Ivo’s cousin stole car from Bradford. He put car at level crossing to stop the train and my sister waited in car nearby…’

  Fucking hell! They’d caused a train wreck!

  ‘…when the train crashed Mariana told the girl her boyfriend sent her and the girl got into car – easy as shit. We met them in old mill Keighley… and that’s when it all fucked up.’

  You think?

  ‘We tried to get her talk – but she not. Not even when we said we had boyfriend. The banditti stormed in with machetes.’ The Romanian hesitated, ‘They beat us up. Ivo has concussion and broken ribs. They made us leave. Told us keep schtum’. His voice became pleading, ‘We couldn’t stop them – they were mad and now she’s dead. What if they trace her to us?’

  The panic in the other man’s voice resurrected Jordan’s earlier image of the icicle and carotid arteries. He wasn’t worried about Izzie Dimou being traced back to the Romanians – he just wanted to distance himself from them – make sure his own tracks were covered. But the Romanian wasn’t finished. Sounding like he might burst into tears, he continued, ‘And now Ivo’s cousin and mate dead too.’

  Fuck, could things get any worse? ‘The Turks killed them?’

  ‘No… drug dealers. The car they stole had grand of heroin in boot.’

  Jordan laughed – halfwits went and stole a drug dealer’s car! He’d instructed them to get the information at all costs – given them free reign… and that’s what his monkeys had done. Shame the organ grinder hadn’t supervised them more closely. Voice harsh, he said, all the while knowing a speedy escape was impossible for them in this weather. ‘Ditch this phone and move onto number two burner. You’re going to be busy. You need to find wherever Izzie Dimou was hiding. When you’ve delivered it to me, get on the first plane back to Romania.’

  He took the battery out of his own burner phone. When the weather improved he’d dump it in the Tame. Depositing it in his bottom drawer and locking it, he sighed. What about the Turks? A chill settled in his stomach – their involvement did not bode well. Who were they working for and what exactly had Izzie Dimou told them? He needed to get ahead of the game. Find out what he could about possible competitors – but how?

  With a tap on the door, Mark walked into the office, sashaying over like Bambi on ice, flashing his perfect smile and commenting on the weather. Jordan glared at him and sent him scurrying back out like a wounded deer. He sighed. Looks like his romantic evening
with Mark wouldn’t be happening. The boy was too prone to sulkiness. Too damn sensitive and he had other things on his mind. Much more important things. Like how the hell was he going to get out of this mess? Selling stuff to the Syrians was one thing. Being linked to a murdered woman was another and now the Turkish Cypriots.

  What else linked him to the morons? His face paled. God! Of course, Daniel Farrier was in his old farmhouse on Saddleworth Moor. He sank into the leather couch in the corner of his office and dropped his head onto his hands. Everything linked back to him… and with the weather set to get worse, who knew when he’d be able to get to the house? Who knew what state Daniel Farrier would be in when he reached him? On the other hand, perhaps Daniel could provide information. He’d just have to find someone who could extract it. Maybe the Turks would play ball – at a cost.

  His other phone buzzed – his real one, not the burner. He glanced at it. It was his wife. Head ready to explode, he answered, pleased for once that she didn’t allow him much time to speak. In the end, a mumbled acknowledgement that he was stranded and a confirmation that she and their daughter were okay, was enough. He hung up and sat gazing at the worsening weather outside, trying to work out how in the space of twenty-four hours he’d moved from being an industrial secrets thief to an accomplice to murder. There was no doubt in his mind – if Daniel Farrier survived however many days locked up in the upstairs back bedroom with no food and little heating, he’d have to kill him, eventually. He couldn’t allow him to reveal that he’d been abducted and there was no way he’d keep quiet about it, not when he discovered his fiancée was dead.

  No, he had to think of himself now. How could he leave Marcia and his daughter? Would he have to go on the run? Good job he always kept a bundle of cash stashed here and at home. There was nothing else for it, self-preservation must be top of his list. First Daniel Farrier, then the idiots he’d paid to do his dirty work. He’d just have to man up and make sure that from now on his dirty work was done properly.