by LJ Ross
“Wait for it, Mick,” Gaz said. “They’ve found a body.”
“Is that all? They were bound to wash up, sometime or other, weren’t they?”
Then, the relevance of what Gaz had said penetrated his fuzzy mind, and the newsreader’s voice confirmed it.
Police have closed off Marsden Bay, today, after a body was discovered early this morning alongside a shipwrecked fishing vessel which had, apparently, collided with Marsden Rock, sometime during the night. No further details are known, but we’ll be reporting on this developing story throughout the day…
“One body,” he muttered, and yet, they were missing two bodies from their own head count.
Where was the second?
“I swear, Mick, I looked around the beach before we left, last night,” Noddy said, with a touch of desperation. “It was dark—”
“Shut up,” he growled, while his mind came into sharp refocus. “Look, the other one’s either dead and hasn’t washed up yet, or she’s alive and hiding somewhere.”
“Somebody could have found her,” Gaz said.
Mick shook his head.
“If they had, we’d have heard about it,” he said. “But none of them would talk to the authorities, anyhow. They’re too scared, after what we’ve told them happens to illegal immigrants, and what they know would happen to their families back home, if any one of them blabbed. It wouldn’t be worth the risk.”
“So, what do we do?”
Mick thought it over, and looked across at the boy, who’d been making noises about playing more of an active role in his dad’s business.
“They can’t keep the beach shut, forever,” he said. “The tide’ll be in again now, for one thing. Gaz? You take Ollie and the dog and head back down there, around four. The tide should be out again, by then, and they’ll have reopened the beach. If anyone sees you, they’ll think you’re dog-walkers.”
Gaz nodded.
“What’re you going to tell him?”
Mick scratched his belly.
“I’ll tell him we want more money, for the bloody inconvenience.”
The others grinned.
“He’ll be round sometime today or tomorrow, to have his usual pick,” Mick told them. “Better make sure the merchandise is presentable. Who’s watchin’ ’em?”
“Callum’s takin’ a shift,” Noddy said, and flicked the channel. “But he says we’re runnin’ low on hash to keep them quiet.”
Mick walked over to the window, which overlooked a tarmacked yard stacked with bricks. There was a large warehouse with a small chimney covering two sides of the quadrangle, accessible only via the courtyard and locked to prying eyes. The house formed part of the property, around which a tall, brick-and-wire fence had been built, with several, top-of-the-range CCTV cameras dotted along the perimeter.
He turned suddenly, and looked over at the boy.
“What d’you tell your ma, when you come here?”
“She doesn’t know owt, Mick—” Gaz began. “She’s off her tits, most days, anyhow.”
“Let him speak for himself.”
Ollie felt their eyes turn to him, one by one, and he licked his lips.
“I just tell her I’m doin’ an apprenticeship, Mr Donnelly,” he said, and Mick approved of the formality. They weren’t at the back-slappin’, hand-shakin’ part, just yet. “She thinks I’m learnin’ a trade.”
“So you are, son,” Gaz said, and the others grinned. “She’d ’ave you all dolled up like a bloody dog’s dinner in a suit and tie, scratchin’ a livin’ every day. That’s a mug’s game, that is.”
“Listen to your Da,” Mick said, with a sharklike stare. “There’s doors that’ll open to you, if you play the game, and play it right. D’ you understand?”
Ollie glanced at his father, then nodded.
“Y-yes, Mr Donnelly.”
Mick gave another loud, hacking cough, before continuing.
“I’m glad about that, son. I really am. Because, you see, you’re entering one of the world’s oldest professions—did you know that?”
Ollie looked at him blankly.
“Didn’t you like pirates, when you were a kid?” Mick asked, weaving his charm around the boy. “Swashbuckling adventures, smuggling, and all that? Bet you never knew your da’ was one of the best, eh?”
Gaz grinned. “Bloody Bluebeard, that’s what I am,” he said, and the others guffawed.
“It goes back a long way,” Mick continued, his eyes never once leaving the boy’s face. “But there’s rules to the game. The most important one is loyalty.”
He moved to stand in front of where Ollie was seated, and the lingering scent of urine wafted off his skin, at close quarters.
“D’ you understand what I mean by loyalty?”
“He knows, Mick,” Gaz said, with a nervous laugh. “I’ve told him straight.”
Mick held up an imperious hand.
“What d’ you know, then, Ollie? Tell me.”
The boy was sweating now; he could feel it, running down the crack of his arse.
“I don’t talk business outside these four walls, and never to anybody without your permission,” he said, looking to his father for reassurance.
“Don’t look at him, look at me,” Mick warned him.
“S-sorry, Mr Donnelly.”
“It’s all right. What else?”
“Never speak to the pigs, not even if you’re going down for murder, and no matter what they offer in exchange for information.”
Mick nodded. “What if you haven’t killed anybody, but we asked you to take the hit. What would you say?”
Ollie swallowed. “I—I’d say it was for the good of the family.”
“What if one of them says they’ll do your mam over for possession, or threaten to take one of your little sisters into care? What then?”
“I’d still say nothin’,” Ollie told him, but the thought of it made his stomach quiver.
“Good lad,” Mick breathed, and dropped onto his haunches in front of him, so they were eye to eye. “Cos, you know what we pirates do, if one of our own betrays us?”
Ollie’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.
“We make him walk the plank, o’ course,” Mick said, and the room erupted into laughter.
He rose to his feet and gave the boy’s head a ruffle with a none-too-gentle hand, but the look he sent Gaz held a warning.
Any slip-ups, and there would be consequences.
“You can count on us, Mick. You know that.”
The Postman smiled.
“Just as well, Gaz. We’ve got some deliveries to make.”
CHAPTER 9
Was this death?
Lawana couldn’t tell.
The darkness was penetrating, and the stone where she’d fallen was cold, and hard. Her body was a mass of pain; every nerve ending screamed, and she wondered if this was divine punishment.
Had she been so very bad?
She was one of six children, born in a tiny village on the outskirts of Chiang Mai, but she hadn’t seen the city properly until she was nine, when she’d been sent to work at the factories making clothes for rich, pale-skinned women.
She’d made money in other ways, too; ways she didn’t care to think about.
Was this her punishment?
The work had given her Achara, her beautiful angel, so she could not regret it.
Life had been a terrible struggle for the past sixteen years since her daughter had been born. Then, one day, she’d seen a man coming around the clubs and bars, speaking to the girls and women, telling them about his immigration service. He’d worn nice, clean linen trousers, and had a friendly smile. He hadn’t asked for any freebies, and he’d told them all about the United Kingdom, joking with them all about Yorkshire puddings and gravy.
You want to bring your daughter?
His smile had widened, even further. Of course, she could bring her daughter.
Not enough money to travel?
No p
roblem, he’d said. You can pay us back, later. You’ll earn five, or ten times what you earn in Chiang Mai, doing a few hours’ strawberry picking.
Don’t want to work outdoors?
That’s okay, you can learn how to do nails and work in a fancy nail salon. He said he knew lots of women who’d saved up and bought their own shop. After a while, they sold up, kept the profits and moved back home, to live the good life.
Worried about immigration?
We’ll handle all of that, for you. The authorities could be very strict, but they’d manage everything.
The weather isn’t as good, he’d joked. But there’d always be enough to eat, and plenty of honest work.
A single tear rolled down her cheek, as she thought of that particular lie.
Back home, she might have used her body, but she’d done it honestly and for good reason. Day after day, she’d sacrificed herself to benefit Achara, and had scratched together the money to send her to school—something she’d longed to do, herself. She hadn’t done all of that, only to watch her child suffer a worse fate than she herself had known.
The reality had become clear—oh, so clear—soon after their suitcases had been confiscated.
That’s when his smile had vanished, along with all her hopes.
* * *
Lawana lay there, passing in and out of consciousness, her mind replaying the events of the past few days. Mostly, she remembered the fear—the overwhelming terror of the icy sea engulfing her, its current dragging her beneath the waves. She’d battled through exhaustion to break to the surface, disoriented, her wrist limp and broken, and had kicked her legs as hard as she could, gritting her teeth against the cold, powering through the driving rain and wind with only one goal.
To find Achara.
Finally, her feet had found purchase against sand, and she’d fallen down in relief and shock, splashing through the shallows, hearing their voices carrying on the wind somewhere further up the beach.
She’d called to her daughter, but her voice had been drowned out by the wind, and there was no answering cry.
Achara!
After a while, she realised they’d left her, alone and trembling, and her daughter was gone from her forever. She had no idea of the direction they’d travelled, and could see no footprints in the darkness— only the murky outline of the cliffs and a tall tower of some kind, with no obvious way out.
Desperately, she’d stumbled along the beach, keeping close to the cliffside to shelter from the worst of the wind. She didn’t know how far she walked, but eventually she came to a kind of pier, where the stones were not as high as before, and light shone above them. She didn’t hesitate, but began climbing up the slippery rocks, clinging to the jagged stones as she dragged herself up and over the incline.
A road.
The distant rumble of a car’s engine, driving away from her.
Her feet had tripped and stumbled over the turf at the top of the cliffs, but she’d kept going, mumbling words of comfort to herself as she’d hurried towards the lights of the village. When her legs met with a barrier and a sign she couldn’t read, she’d propelled herself over it, past caring about her own safety in her haste to discover Achara’s whereabouts.
Suddenly, the ground underfoot had given way and she’d fallen, swallowed alive by the grass and soil until she’d landed with a sickening crunch of bone, and the darkness was complete.
CHAPTER 10
While Lowerson and Yates oversaw the recovery of the fishing trawler and completion of the forensics work at the beach, Ryan, Phillips and MacKenzie made their way back to Northumbria Police Headquarters, which was located in the eastern end of Newcastle, not far from the old shipping heart of the city and a stone’s throw from the Port of Tyne.
“I wouldn’t mind paying the harbourmaster a visit,” MacKenzie said, as they crossed the car park towards the main entrance. “Marine Services were helpful on the phone, but nothing beats a face-to-face.”
“It’s the most obvious place for a drop-off, presuming the boat came from the Netherlands,” Ryan agreed.
“They’ve got some balls,” Phillips remarked.
“You can say that again,” Ryan muttered. “I’ve been out on a boat in a storm like that one, and I was lucky to come out the other end of it with mine still intact.”
Phillips was puzzled.
“I meant, The Pie Van has those little chocolate coconut balls,” he said, pointing to the takeaway van parked nearby. “Vegan, or somethin’, but they taste nice enough. Anybody want one?”
Ryan stared at him, then let out a short laugh.
“Why not,” he said, with a glint in his eye. “I didn’t know you liked eating balls so much, Frank.”
“Words I never thought I’d hear you say,” MacKenzie put in, while Phillips stalked off, muttering to himself about the younger generation.
“I surprise myself, sometimes,” Ryan said, and then remembered something important. “Morrison was hoping to catch us both for a word, on Monday.”
“What does she want to talk about?” MacKenzie asked.
Ryan decided to leave it to the Chief Constable to put forward their idea.
“Nothing urgent, just a discussion about your career progression, and where you’d like to take it.”
It occurred to MacKenzie that, no matter how busy or distracted Ryan was with the daily grind, he never forgot to consider those around him, and what their needs and goals might be. It was a particularly laudable trait in their chosen profession, which was not especially known for its equal opportunities record.
“Thank you,” she said. “I have to say that, lately, I’ve been feeling at a bit of a crossroads, now we have Samantha to think about.”
Ryan gave her a keen look.
“Have you come to any conclusions?”
“I concluded that I wanted any daughter of mine to respect me, not only as a parent but as a productive member of society. On that basis, I still want to work, and find the right balance at home.”
“How will you know when you’ve found it?” he asked softly.
MacKenzie thought of the days she spent sifting through case files, interviewing witnesses, managing staff and investigations—and the evenings and weekends she spent with Samantha and her horse at the stables, at the shopping mall, bankrupting herself buying all manner of pink, glittery tat, or having dinner with Frank while they talked over their day.
She couldn’t think of a better balance than that.
“You just feel it,” she said, simply. “Don’t you?”
Ryan thought back over his conversation with Anna that morning, looked across at Phillips who, even now, was jiggling his little cellophane-wrapped balls suggestively, and smiled.
“Yeah, you do.”
* * *
At lunchtime, the three detectives reconvened in one of the smaller meeting rooms of the Criminal Investigation Department, where they were joined by four other senior officers: DCI Dan Wentworth from the Vice Squad; DI Alec Gross from the Drugs Squad; DI Kieron Chambers from Serious & Organised Crime; and, DCI Mo Farooqi from the Fraud Squad, all of whom were male and in their mid-forties.
“Thank you all for coming, especially during your lunch hour,” Ryan said. “Please, help yourself to sandwiches, let’s try and keep this informal, for now.”
“I think we’ve all seen the news this morning,” Farooqi began, and poured himself a cup of strong coffee. “What’s the line?”
“Trafficking, we suspect, or some other illegal smuggling,” Ryan said. “The body was found with suspicious markings on her wrist, the boat was unmarked and had no VTS record…”
“Standard ploy,” Chambers put in. “Have you managed to identify her?”
Ryan assumed he meant the body rather than the boat, and shook his head.
“The body’s been transferred to the pathologist for post-mortem, but we’re assuming it may take some time to identify her—unless we receive word from overseas that they’re missing a f
oreign national. Of course, it’s possible the woman was a British national, but it seems unlikely given the surrounding circumstances.”
“Any missing persons reports?” Wentworth asked.
“None matching the woman’s description,” MacKenzie answered, having already checked her daily alerts, and the Missing Persons Database.
“At this stage, what we need to know is whether there’s a link to any active investigations. We want to know whether this was a one-off, or part of a wider, organised operation.”
“And what we really want to know is whether there’s a new honcho in town,” Phillips said, with his usual forthrightness. “There’s always some tussling back and forth, while the gangs fight over turf, but who fancies themselves as the new boss in town, nowadays?”
The man in the ‘know’ was DCI Chambers, who polished off the last of an egg sandwich, brushed the crumbs from his tie and then linked his fingers together on the desk.
“As we all know, following the success of Operation Watchman, last year, the ‘Smoggies’ were largely disbanded, and their leader, Bobby Singh, is now behind bars enjoying the hospitality of HMP Frankland,” he said, with the ghost of a smile. “The Smoggies were the biggest and most powerful threat to community safety I’ve seen since ‘Jimmy the Manc’ was alive, so I’m happy to see the back of them.”
“Hear, hear,” Phillips intoned.
“Of course, the minute we get shot of one gang, another one’s lined up to fill its boots,” Chambers continued. “From a Serious and Organised Crime perspective, ‘County Lines’ is still a major problem in these parts, like it is across the whole of the UK. We don’t have dealers working through syndicates in the pubs and clubs, anymore—or, at least, they don’t limit themselves to the usual places where people gather. Supply is outweighing demand, so they’re having to work harder to shift the merchandise, and that means pushing out into the countryside.”
“We’re pickin’ up a lot more kids and teens in the villages,” DI Gross agreed. “We had a meeting with reps from a few of the NHS trusts across Northumberland, Tyne and Wear, and Durham, and they’ve all reported a rise in drugs-related healthcare complaints, overdoses and all that.”
