The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, not all of them, obviously, but a few. One was really horrible. He’s a regular, and then there’s also been a couple of uniformed bobbies who like their freebies.’

  I saw Wendy and her DS exchange concerned looks.

  ‘Do you know their names?’ I asked.

  Mollie laughed and threw her head back. ‘Are you serious? They don’t tell us their names. The only thing I can tell you is that the horrible one was called ‘Buff’, you know, as in naked. That made us girls laugh. Whether that was a nickname or his actual name, I have no idea.’

  I looked toward Wendy and DS Fleming. They were both silent, but I noticed Fleming had bowed her head and was staring at the floor. ‘Mean something to you?’ I asked.

  ‘What did he look like, this “Buff” character?’ Wendy addressed her question to Mollie.

  ‘Big man … bald. Bit of a roly-poly. He had to be CID as he’d never get into a uniform.’

  Wendy gave me a look that said ‘don’t press it’. I guessed Mollie had said enough for them to know exactly who Buff was. Finally, I asked Fleming to pull the photographs from her file. She laid the six small prints on the small table. I asked Mollie if she recognised anyone.

  Her finger went straight to Marius Gabor. ‘Him. It was him who put me in the boot.’

  ‘Was he the one with the gun, the leader?’

  ‘No,’ said Mollie. ‘This one is the leader. He is the one with the gun.’

  I looked down to where the index finger of her right hand had moved to press down on another of the pictures. The hand was sinewy, the skin cracked and wrinkled, the finger nails chewed and broken. Mollie couldn’t have been much more than thirty, but the hand I stared at was that of a much older woman. As she pulled away from the coffee table, the face in the picture was revealed.

  It was Petre.

  Chapter 86

  When I phoned in my report, DCI Bowler wasn’t pleased.

  Not only was I confirming that Lynn Wainwright was in the hands of kidnappers and the reason for the abduction was retribution for the shooting, but I had little to offer by way of a clue as to where she might be being held. We needed a stroke of luck or something more from Mollie to help us narrow down the search.

  The anger in Bowler’s tone dissipated when I described the softening up process that the traffickers were using. ‘You realise what this means?’ he said.

  I assured him I did, and I understood the urgency. If Lynn was getting the same treatment, she was in deep trouble. If the heroin didn’t kill her, she would become addicted to it very quickly, which would likely mean the end of her life as a cop, even if we got to her soon. Whilst we had the good news that she was alive, we were now chasing a fast-burning fuse.

  Bowler explained that he was going to have to send the enquiry up the road. I knew what he meant. Investigating a murdered girl in Hampstead could be handled by a small squad. Now that we knew we were dealing with the kidnap of a police officer, it took the enquiry into a whole new arena. The moment I put the receiver down I knew that phone calls would be made to senior officers, plans would be mobilised and specialists called into work. By that evening the Commissioner would have been briefed and the operation would be placed under the command of AC ‘SO’, Assistant Commissioner ‘Specialist Operations’, or someone of similar authority.

  With an instruction for me to head back to London as soon as I could, he ended the call. Very soon, Nina and I would be debriefed and then told to return to our normal duties. Our contribution to helping find Lynn would be at an end.

  But as I put down my phone, I decided I wasn’t about to let that happen. Not just yet. Not while I was close and not while I could try. The Met had incredible resources but they would take time to swing into action. By then, it might be too late for Lynn. There was one chance. Since discovering the extent of the Cristea interests, Toni Fellowes had mentioned tasking her assistant to do some research on them. It was time to call in a promise.

  I made my apologies to Wendy, excused myself, and headed back to my car. Only once I was there did I dare phone Toni. She picked up straightaway. I was halfway through explaining the background – what Mollie had told me and the need to find Lynn soon, when she interrupted me.

  ‘It’s the Cristeas.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ I replied. ‘The books, the heroin, the slaves … it all adds up.’

  ‘I agree … can you give me a few minutes? Nell did me a report on the family. There was something in it about a factory in the West Country. I’ll find it and ring you right back.’

  Toni Fellowes was reading my thoughts, and doing just what I’d hoped. I hung up, and decided that my next call better be to Jenny. I sat with the phone on my lap for several minutes while I thought about how I was going to explain I was going to be away from home a lot longer than I had promised. I expected her reaction to the news wouldn’t be good. I was right. Explanations about the demands of the job and the fact that a WPC was in danger fell on deaf ears.

  As the line went dead, I felt a momentary surge of anger. I slammed the phone down onto the passenger seat of the car. For one crazy moment, I nearly dropped everything to head home. But the phone rang again, almost immediately. It was Toni. She had the address and a grid reference for the Cristea factory. Apparently Nell had found out about it through a building planning application made to the local authority. There was some irony at the prospect of compliance with such a simple law proving to be the Cristeas’ undoing. I just hoped it turned out to be what we were looking for. I jotted the details down and promised to let Toni know what I found.

  Back in Wendy’s office, I brandished the grid reference.

  ‘I’ve had a suggestion from a contact in London. Someone I know I can trust. It’s a possible lead on where the factory might be.’

  ‘You’ll need help. I’ll start a call-out procedure. How many people will you want? I think we should have armed officers…’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘You heard what Mollie said. Some of your lads have been going to the factory. I don’t think they were buying books.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that we can’t let this out until I’m sure it’s the right place. Then, no disrespect Wendy, but I’m going to have to call London for help. I can’t take the chance someone local might tip off the traffickers. If Lynn is still alive, they might decide she is too much of a risk and dispose of her.’

  Wendy slowly nodded her acknowledgement. ‘You’re right; I can’t be sure who to trust. But by God I will find out. Why not call London now?’

  ‘On a hunch? If the building matches Mollie’s description, I’ll call London then.’

  ‘So I’ll come with you,’ Wendy said.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I answered. ‘I’m best on my own.’

  ‘Look, Finlay. I can’t let you do that. And, if what Mollie is saying is correct, I can’t be sure who to trust to send with you. Besides, do you have any idea where you’re heading?’

  ‘Not really,’ I answered, honestly. ‘I was going to buy a local map.’

  ‘That settles it. And anyway, you might be an old friend, but if you’re up to something on my patch, I want to know what it is.’

  The argument was lost.

  Ten minutes later, Wendy and I were in her car speeding towards the Forest of Dean.

  Chapter 87

  I did my best to follow an Ordnance Survey map Wendy’s DS found in their main CID office. She estimated it would take us about forty minutes to get to the area.

  Wendy knew the roads so we made fast progress, but I still wasn’t sure about having her along. As we travelled, I raised the subject again. She reiterated the somewhat valid point that this was her area and she was the ranking officer.

  We were heading for a large woodland area outside a town called Coleford. The afternoon light was fading as we pulled into the small town. I did my best with the map and, after half an hour or so,
we found the entrance to the factory site. But that’s as far as we got.

  Surrounded by woodland, it was gated and enclosed by a high, brick wall. Wendy stopped the car, and I got out and walked up to the entrance. It was padlocked. In front of me a long, narrow dirt track ran for about two hundred yards through woodland and then turned left, presumably to the buildings.

  There were tyre tracks, but no vehicles to be seen and no people. If it hadn’t been for the fact that the padlock looked new, I would have guessed the place to be deserted.

  ‘I need to get inside,’ I said to Wendy through the open car window.

  She pointed to the barbed wire that topped the redbrick wall. ‘Won’t be easy. Shall I park the car? We can have a look around the side; see if there’s a place we can get over?’

  ‘Not we, Wendy. Thanks, but I prefer to have someone on the outside, in case I hit problems.’

  Wendy scowled. ‘Not a chance, Finlay. You’re not going alone, with no backup.’

  She was right. On my own, I would be vulnerable.

  Wendy found another track about a hundred yards from the wall where she was able to park the car far enough from the road so that it wouldn’t be seen by a casual passerby, and then she rejoined me and we began to walk along the wall. I wasn’t sure what we were looking for, or exactly what I was going to do, but I promised myself there were going to be no heroics.

  Soon, we found a section where the barbed wire was missing.

  Climbing a wall requires a lot of upper-body strength. With an apex about ten feet from the ground, the obstacle that faced us wouldn’t have been too much of a problem when I was in my twenties. Now, it might as well have been thirty feet high. There was no way I was going to be able to climb it.

  I tried. It must have looked ridiculous to Wendy, standing behind me. As I jumped, my hands barely reached the top and, with no grip to find, I fell backwards onto the dirt, winded.

  Wendy laughed quietly. ‘Want me to try?’ she asked. I smirked and gestured for her to make me a foothold. She shrugged as if to say ‘I’ll give you this one’, leaned back against the wall and cupped her hands.

  I stepped up and pushed upwards. My less-than-willing assistant strained to hold me as I scrambled onto the flat surface above and then sat with my legs astride the wall. I stopped for a moment to get my breath. Gazing into the woodland, I could now see a lot further. There was still no sign of any buildings.

  From behind me, Wendy pulled on my dangling leg. ‘Given any thought as to how you’re gonna get back?’ She was right. I reached down. She grabbed my wrist and, in an instant, was sat beside me.

  ‘You made that look easy,’ I whispered.

  ‘I was always fitter than you, Finlay.’

  I smiled. She was right; on my own I would have had more joy digging a tunnel.

  Chapter 88

  The woodland floor was wet. I moved carefully and slowly but I hadn’t gone far before my feet started to feel cold. My shoes were good for normal use but for tramping around a forest, they were pretty useless.

  I managed to find some harder ground by sticking close to the larger trees. The soil was drier where roots had drawn moisture from the earth. It also meant the surface was firmer and I was less likely to leave a clear foot mark.

  I moved slowly. Wendy had agreed she would stay on top of the wall, where she would be able to hear if I got into difficulties. If I did, or if she hadn’t heard from me after an hour, she would call for help from the Met. It was a bit of a rushed idea, but if both Lynn and I were missing, it seemed a decent enough backup plan. We also agreed I would high-tail it back to the wall if there was any indication of an approaching dog.

  I wasn’t sure about the time, but I reckoned I had about half an hour of daylight before dusk set in. As any soldier will tell you, the best time to move around is the twilight period, either just before dawn or just as sunlight fades from the sky. Human eyes need a while to adjust to the changing brightness, to detect movement and to see detail clearly. But there is more than enough light to move by.

  That time was approaching. Twilight was also a time when sentries tended to be at their least observant. It was something to do with the human body clock. I didn’t understand why, but it suited me perfectly. I needed no more than a few minutes with enough light to check out the buildings and discover if they matched the description that Mollie had given.

  The wood was quiet. As I stopped to work out a direction in which to head, I listened. There was very little bird song. About a hundred yards ahead I heard a car door slam, then a human voice. I couldn’t make out what was said but it sounded like someone giving orders. I waited, in case it was a reaction to my presence.

  Several minutes passed and the wood remained calm. I knew from experience that, if anybody had entered the trees to search, my first clue would have come from the movements of songbirds. By keeping still, it wouldn’t be me that they reacted to. Blackbirds, in particular, would give off an alarm call as they took off through the wood, away from the perceived danger. If they flew past me, I would know from where the danger threatened. But what worked for me might also work against me, and if the guards – the ‘French speaking’ guards – were the ex-military types I thought they could be, they would also know about bird behaviour.

  I had to find a place from where I might observe the buildings, listen to voices and write down the details of any cars I could see. If I moved too quickly, the birds would be spooked and, to the trained observer, my presence might be revealed.

  Fortune favoured me and I reached the edge of the trees, just as daylight was fading to night. There was just one building that I could see. It was as Mollie had described: three floors, red brick and a slate roof. With bars on the inside of the windows and what looked like the remnants of ancient flower beds, it did indeed look like it might have been an old Victorian hospital.

  My foot touched something solid. I glanced down to see the remains of an old wooden sign, discarded in the undergrowth. I crouched down and cleared away the dirt that covered it. A name was revealed.

  ‘Clearwell Asylum’. I sensed this was the right place. To the traffickers, a former mental hospital would be perfect. Mollie had described a central staircase which led to the dungeons where she had been held. The way she had depicted them seemed a bit incongruous when compared to my picture of a redbrick Victorian hospital. But, an asylum. That answered many questions. I wondered if the three floors I could see hid other levels beneath the ground where the slave girls were kept, safe from prying eyes or from being overheard, and where the poor insane folk of a long-forgotten past had also been incarcerated.

  Moving along the edge of the wood, I was careful to mask my movements by keeping the shadows of the dark trees behind me. I hadn’t gone far when I came across what looked like a car park. There were several dark-coloured minibuses, all with their back ends parked against the building walls. Behind them I spotted a Range Rover. It looked new. Very clean … very expensive.

  Two men were stood next to it, chatting. They seemed relaxed, their demeanour reassuring. A heightened state of tension might have indicated awareness of a prowler.

  I checked the walls for any sign of CCTV or sensor lights. There were none. The building looked run down. Loose slates, dislodged from the roof, lay broken on the drive. The windows were all grey with dirt. It didn’t look like the place had seen any repair work for many years.

  I inched closer, trying to hear what the men were saying. Risking leaving the cover of the trees, I edged forward and pressed myself up against one of the minibuses. The effort proved to be pointless. Close proximity only revealed words being spoken in a foreign tongue. It sounded Eastern European, but I wasn’t sure. I could tell that it wasn’t German and I was fairly confident that I would recognise Russian, but most of the languages from the Baltic States sounded the same to me.

  It was as I moved back to start my return to find Wendy that I spotted a small sports car near to what looked like an entrance
to the building. The sight of the car stunned me to the very core.

  It was a small, silver sports car. Two doors, very distinctive.

  I had ridden in the passenger seat only two days previously.

  It was Nina Brasov’s.

  Chapter 89

  I returned to the wall, trying to make sense of what I had seen. Was it Nina’s car? Was I mistaken? Could there be an innocent explanation? Had she been taken as well? My thoughts returned to the door at the Hampstead flat where we had discovered Relia’s body. Ever since I had learned that somebody had cleaned off the footmark, something had niggled me. At the time, I’d put it down to the actions of someone who had been covering up their neglect.

  But, if Nina was a spy in the camp, the removal of the mark would have been easy for her. She’d had the opportunity. And she was also one of very few people who knew where Relia was staying. I wondered now if she had taken me along simply to give her a cover story when we found the body. I also remembered that she hadn’t been too keen to look for which route the killers had taken.

  Then there was Lynn Wainwright’s abduction. On the day we had gone to Old Street to take Lynn’s statement, Nina hadn’t wanted me to go with her. Afterwards, she had been looking over Lynn’s car. She’d had plenty of time to jot down the details.

  Finally, I recalled that DCI Bowler had mentioned he couldn’t get hold of Nina when everyone else on the Murder Squad had been called into work. I stopped for a moment to check my phone. No signal. If Nina was here, was she also out of reach of the network?

  It all added up. Mollie had mentioned a woman from the city. A woman who came to give the girls dance lessons. I quickly discounted Nina having been abducted, too. If she had been, why would her car be here? Why not leave it like they had left Lynn’s?