The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  Aware the Hastings report had concluded Monaghan was behind the attacks on former SAS soldiers, motivated by revenge after he discovered they had been having affairs with his wife, Nell explained that Stuart had checked military records. He discovered there was remarkably little information on either man. She had told him to keep digging. They needed to know why the files on Blackwood and McNeil hadn’t been subject to any follow-up enquiry by the Anti-Terrorist Squad.

  Nell had also checked on the names. Blackwood was listed as a mercenary, killed recently in a suicide bombing in India. McNeil was reported to be a private security contractor working in Iraq. It was her suggestion that, if Monaghan had also been responsible for Blackwood’s death, then McNeil, if he was still alive, could possibly have been another target.

  It was when Nell was about to switch off her computer and head home that she stumbled upon a connection between the dead former soldiers that none of them had anticipated.

  She had a name for it. Synchronicity.

  Chapter 39

  Nina was curious to hear about the Romanian wedding.

  She wanted to know how I’d coped with all the drinking and dancing that was involved. I laughed her jokes off, most of which were directed at my age. Nina thought such events were better suited to the young, it seemed.

  Matt had been doing a little research and had put together some facts and figures on girls reported missing from UK cities. There were very few foreign girls listed as missing persons but, when he had extended his search to include Europe, the list became much larger. Going back several years, the reports ran into thousands. Girls just seemed to disappear from their home villages, never to be seen again.

  It was the exact scenario the NATO investigator, Irena Senovac, had alluded to in her reports to the UN. A huge trade in women, most of whom had been forced into the sex trade and some of whom were ending up in London.

  Nina was planning to take some photos of missing girls to Relia Stanga, the rescued slave, later that morning to see if she could pick out anyone she knew. She asked me to join her and offered to drive.

  Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t heard about her reputation or I would have declined the offer. She liked to drive fast, and she was also heavy on the brakes and intolerant of all the ‘wankers’ that got in her way. Luckily for me, the only car that had been available from the motor pool was a former flying-squad Volvo that had seen better days. It was reliable, but lacked the acceleration Nina craved.

  By the time we reached Hampstead, I was feeling queasy. Maybe my system still hadn’t recovered from the weekend. For once, I actually felt grateful for a traffic queue. The main road from Belsize Park into Hampstead High Street was bumper to bumper. Nina was quiet as she concentrated on her driving. I wound down the window to the passenger door and gulped in the fresh air.

  Nina explained that it was still undecided whether Relia would be provided with safe passage home or if an attempt would be made for her to be granted asylum. The paperwork was complicated but Nina was certain that if Relia went home to what remained of her family, she would be recaptured by the slavers and would either be murdered for talking to the British police or sold back into the sex industry.

  The safe house was a flat in a block called Redhill, at the top end of the High Street, close to the tube station. It was privately owned but council funded. There were several in the area that were normally reserved for the victims of domestic violence, but, with good contacts in the Camden Social Services Department, Nina had been able to secure her witness a place.

  Relia was at number 43, on the third floor. Nina pressed the buzzer and waited. There was no response.

  ‘I only spoke to her last night,’ she said. ‘What’s the time, Finlay?’ She looked a little annoyed as she buzzed the flat twice more.

  ‘Five to twelve. Maybe she’s popped out?’

  ‘She doesn’t tend to go out in daylight. She’s paranoid that someone she knows will recognise her and tell the slavers where she is.’

  I could see Nina was starting to get frustrated. A concerned look was registering on her face. ‘I’m sure she’s fine. Try the concierge buzzer,’ I said.

  Nina jabbed button 43 twice more before doing as I suggested. A male voice answered and Nina explained who we were and asked to be allowed in. He politely declined but offered to come and help. He would be about five minutes if we didn’t mind waiting.

  Nina kicked her feet impatiently.

  ‘You OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Not really. It’s just that I have other things to do today rather than wait for Relia to come home from shopping … and I told her I would be here at midday.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look at the photos?’

  Nina handed the document folder over without replying. There were about a dozen sheets, each contained about twenty pictures of varying quality. Most were family pictures of missing girls; some were copies of passport photographs. Each sheet was headed with the Interpol logo. I flicked through them, slowly. They all looked remarkably similar. All women – late teens to early twenties; all white, all looking vaguely Eastern European. All reported as missing.

  Nina lit up a cigarette as we waited. The simple action caused me to pause for a moment before continuing to amble through the pictures. It was the first time I had seen Nina smoke. I was surprised. Although she sometimes joined Matt and me at the end of the day to down a small Penderyn, I’d imagined Nina pursuing a healthier lifestyle.

  She noticed my reaction. ‘Stress, Finlay. I don’t smoke many these days, but if I’m stressed I find that a little draw of nicotine gets me through.’

  I turned to the final sheet of photographs. It was the saddest of all, showing the bodies and faces of unidentified female murder victims. There were eight, in date order.

  ‘None of my business,’ I said. ‘Just surprised me a bit…’ I stopped mid-sentence. The final pair of pictures caused me to halt the conversation. There was a name at the base of the picture, presumably a village or town, and the country, Romania. The first victim was a poor facial shot of a bruised face with what might at one time have been attractive blonde hair. The second showed the body where it had been found; it looked like a roadside in a wood. The victim’s dress was torn and dirty.

  ‘You OK, Finlay?’ Nina stubbed the cigarette out on the ground as we saw the caretaker approaching across the small car park. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I stared at the picture. It was the unmistakable dress that the poor girl was wearing that caught my eye.

  Yellow with red stripes.

  Chapter 40

  I paused for a moment before replying to Nina.

  ‘When were these pictures taken?’

  ‘No idea. Recently, though. They only came over the wire this morning. You sure you’re OK?’

  The dress was very distinctive. Bright yellow, and even with the dirt that soiled it, the stripes were clear.

  Just a couple of days previously I had been watching a girl wearing the identical dress lose a dance competition in the courtyard at Gheorghe Cristea’s home. I scanned the face in the photograph. It was dirty and dishevelled. I remembered that the girl at the wedding had also been blonde, but the face … it was impossible to be sure.

  If it was the girl from the wedding then it might be I needed to do something about it. But it might not be, I thought. For all I knew, that pattern of dress might be common in Romania.

  I handed the photographs back and mumbled, ‘I’m fine,’ just as the caretaker joined us and looked over the warrant card that Nina thrust into his face.

  Using a master key to open the street door, our guide led the way up six flights to the third floor. Smartly dressed in matching blue trousers and jacket, the caretaker gave the impression of someone who really loved his job. He was about seventy, but as fit as a flea, and flew up the stairs as quickly as a man many years his junior might manage. Nina tried the intercom at the door leading to the flat corridors. Again, there was no response.
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  ‘Do you have a contact number for her?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Hang on a minute.’

  We waited while Nina rooted around in her handbag for her mobile phone. As she tapped in the number, I caught the old caretaker eyeing her up and down. In a black jacket with a white blouse and tight black trousers she could easily have been mistaken for a lawyer rather than a cop.

  The caretaker winked and smiled. Lowering his voice, he leaned towards me and whispered. ‘Very tall…’

  I nodded without responding. The caretaker was right. Nina was a good two inches taller than me in flat shoes. In heels, she would easily be six feet two.

  There was no reply to the phone call. ‘Do you have a key to this door as well?’ Nina asked the caretaker.

  ‘Yes … and the flat door if you need to go in.’

  Nina turned to me. ‘I’d like to, Finlay. OK with you? Just for peace of mind, really.’

  I shrugged. It was her call.

  The caretaker led the way along the narrow passage. When we reached Flat 43, Nina knocked hard and called out Relia’s name. There was no response. She knocked once more, this time harder still.

  The corridor lighting was dim but, standing back whilst Nina knocked again and again, I spotted a mark on the door. I held up my hand to indicate that Nina should stop knocking. I looked closer. The mark was familiar. A trace left by the sole of a sports trainer. It was only visible by looking at the door from an acute angle, but it was there. It was the kind of smudge that a burglar leaves when kicking down a door.

  ‘See that?’ I pointed to the mark.

  ‘No … see what?’ Nina said.

  ‘Shoe mark. Looks like someone has forced the door.’

  ‘Shit.’

  The caretaker interrupted. ‘Looks like they didn’t get in.’

  ‘Or the door was half open when it was kicked?’ Nina commented. ‘Can you open it? And try the mortise first, we need to know if the last person to leave locked the door … and be careful not to touch anything.’

  Gently, the caretaker inserted the brass master key into the mortise lock. It was already open; either the last person to leave didn’t have the key or hadn’t bothered to lock it. The door opened easily as the Yale key turned.

  ‘Better leave this to us, mate,’ I said to the caretaker.

  With the others stepping back slightly, I eased slowly and gently into the flat. All was quiet.

  The door frame was intact with no sign of a forced entry. Behind the front door was a small hallway. Across the tiny space, there were two white doors, both slightly ajar. One appeared to be a bathroom, the other a toilet. To the left it looked like there was a single bedroom. The gentle sound of water running into a sink could be heard coming from my right. I guessed it to be the kitchen and eating area. There was no other sound or indication of life.

  ‘Relia,’ I called out.

  There was no reply. Edging forward slowly, I headed toward the sound of the water. The door to the kitchen area was only slightly ajar, but even before I opened it fully, I knew what I was going to find.

  It was the smell – warm, salty and sickeningly familiar.

  The smell of fresh blood.

  Chapter 41

  Spilled cereal on the kitchen table suggested that Relia had just sat down to breakfast when she was disturbed.

  The kitchen chairs were turned over and a drawer pulled open. Several large knives lay on the floor. I wondered if Relia had been reaching for a weapon to defend herself. What was certain was that someone had lost a lot of blood. The kitchen floor was covered in the fresh, congealing evidence of a desperate fight. There were skid marks where feet had struggled to gain grip. Blood was splashed and sprayed up the walls and across the work surfaces, on the unit doors and on the back of the door into the hallway.

  A moment later, the caretaker called out. He had found something.

  ‘I thought we said to wait outside in the corridor,’ I said.

  The caretaker looked ill, as if he were about to throw up. ‘Sorry,’ he answered. ‘I was curious.’

  I stepped past him and into the bathroom. Again, the smell of blood hit me. Then I saw the body. A woman. She was in the bath. A bare leg hung over the side.

  Nina looked over my shoulder. ‘It’s her,’ she said. She squeezed past me and checked for signs of life. There were none. Relia’s injuries were clearly fatal. The killer had left her in a real mess. Blood splashes up the wall and over the shower curtain gave every indication that the attacker had used the bath to start hacking her into pieces. But, for some reason, the attack had stopped and then the assailant had tried to use the shower to clean up, leaving Relia where she was, but using bathroom towels to remove the last of the blood from clothes and shoes, then leaving them in a nasty pink pile on the floor.

  As Nina put in a call to the local CID, I stepped out of the bathroom and went to check the front door again. I wondered whether Relia had been expecting someone and had opened it to allow her attacker in. Swinging the door open on the hinges, the hallway light again revealed the mark on the paintwork. I made a mental note to ask the Scenes of Crime examiner to have a look at it.

  The local CID were quick to arrive. The caretaker went to open the doors for them and within a few minutes a detective appeared in the corridor with a scene-of-crime kit. A forensic officer was with the caretaker. The Area Major Investigation Team had been informed. It looked like all the bases had been covered.

  ‘It’ll be out of our hands now, Finlay,’ Nina said, as she joined me in the corridor. ‘The Murder Squad will take over. They’ll want witness statements and some other stuff but we can take care of that later. I need to get back and brief the boss.’

  ‘What shall I do – wait here?’ I said.

  ‘No, you better come back with me. The shit’s gonna fly on this, so you can help me dodge it.’

  ‘Why’s that exactly?’

  ‘Relia was supposed to be in the witness protection programme. I had a few problems: budgets … that kind of thing. There’s going to be people wanting to cover their arses and we need to make sure they don’t do so at our expense.’

  We headed back to the car. At Nina’s suggestion we made a quick call at the caretaker’s flat before departing.

  When we knocked on the caretaker’s door, the forensic Scenes of Crime Officer was in the process of taking a mouth swab from him to collect a DNA sample. He seized the chance to take similar swabs from both Nina and me. The poor caretaker was still shaking at the horror we had witnessed.

  I mentioned to the SOCO about the foot mark on the flat door. He promised to make it his next job and we headed back to the Volvo.

  Before getting in, I stood for a moment, thinking about what we had just witnessed, the sound of approaching sirens telling me the troops were on their way – uniformed officers who would seal off the entrances to the flats and make sure that the scene would be preserved for the forensic teams.

  As Nina opened the car door, I asked, ‘Do you think we disturbed them?’

  ‘Possibly. It certainly looked like they left in a hurry. I couldn’t work out why the bastards put her in the bath, though. It looked like the fight started in the kitchen, so why not finish it there?’

  I looked around the car park. ‘Maybe they hadn’t finished with her when we turned up … If we did disturb them,’ I went on, ‘which way would you go if you didn’t want to be seen?’

  Nina glanced around, shrugged and then indicated the far side of the car park. ‘I’d probably have a car waiting over there. Drive away from the main High Street and avoid the crowds.’

  ‘Mind if I have a quick look?’

  Nina sighed. ‘If you insist. Want me to come with you?’

  I did. As we walked together across the tarmac, I scanned the ground. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just something unusual – a clue that might indicate a route taken by the escaping killers.

  I didn’t have to wait long. On the other side of the park
ing area I noticed a well-trodden route across a flower border – a short cut used by residents to enter the streets behind the flats. On a low wall, I saw a dark, damp spot of liquid. Stopping to look more closely, I saw others, smaller and less obvious from a distance.

  It was blood. And it was still wet.

  ‘Look at this,’ I said to Nina.

  She crouched down. ‘Looks like she hurt one of them. This hasn’t been here long, not even dried at the edges. Wait here … I’ll go and get the SOCO.’

  I did as I was told, looking around the trodden-down area as Nina headed off to get help. But within a few seconds, curiosity got the better of me and I started to move towards the street. I was careful where I walked. The last thing I needed was to spoil some forensic evidence that the SOCO might find.

  All was quiet. Save for the lines of cars parked along both sides of the road, there was little to see. As the track opened up onto the footway, the direct route across the street was blocked by a shiny new Jaguar.

  I pictured men moving at speed and imagined they might bump into the side of the Jag as they ran. I made a mental note to ask the SOCO to check the car paintwork for fingerprints. As I leaned down to check for myself, I saw a faint scuff mark along the sill below the passenger door.

  Instinct told me to bend down and look under the car. It was dark. I couldn’t see daylight from the other side.

  There was someone hiding underneath.

  Chapter 42

  For a second I stood up and thought. Whoever was hiding under the car almost certainly knew I had spotted them. And I had no radio to call for help.