The major general smiled. ‘Everyone has that problem at your age. But you have to prioritise.’
‘You know she’s helping me with my English revision.’
Michael nodded. ‘Evie’s a great girl. But think about it. You won’t see her for nearly a year. Then, if everything goes to plan, you’ll be at Cambridge and she’ll be … where is it she’s going?’
‘Exeter.’
The major general laughed. ‘As far away as she can get from her crazy parents.’
‘That’s what she says.’ Nick looked up at him. ‘Why are the Favons like that?’
‘It’s a long story and one for another day. Come on. The fish will be harder to hook the higher the sun gets.’
‘Sorry, Gramps, I’m not coming.’ Then Nick Etherington, captain of rugby and cricket, head of house and governors’ prizewinner, pulled the covers over his head.
23
Joni got home in the late afternoon. She kicked off her boots and looked out at the birds in the garden behind the house. It had been an eighteenth-century merchant’s home, with tiny servants’ rooms in the attic and a dim basement with barred windows. Developers had bought the building when the last member of the family died ten years back and split it into six apartments. Joni’s was one of two on the first floor. It had a spacious living area, a reasonably sized bedroom, and functional kitchen and bathroom. Her mother had told her she could get a detached cottage where she lived further north for half the rent, but Joni didn’t listen. She needed to be in the town, even if it was tiny compared with London. The countryside still made her nervous.
A couple of female blackbirds were picking at the shared lawn, tchook-tchooking as they went. She liked the birds. The females lacked the males’ show-off yellow beaks and the feathers, especially on their chests, were mottled brown. They were like her – less dark and seemingly disconnected from their male counterparts. Joni had never felt much in common with black people of either sex. She didn’t like black music of any kind, sticking resolutely to the classical recordings she had first heard on cassettes borrowed from the public library. She didn’t like black dance, black literature or black cooking. A friend at Oxford told her she was in denial about her racial heritage. Joni brushed that off. She was in touch with her white heritage and that was enough.
DCI Rutherford had told her to take the rest of the day off, almost marching her out of Force HQ when he left. She played along because she needed a shower and change of clothes. There was plenty she still had to do, not least since the injured Albanian had been cleared to talk by the doctors. Putting Brahms’s second symphony on as loud as was feasible – her neighbours above were retired doctors with the hearing of bats – she stood under the hot water for five minutes, before dousing herself with cold for another three. As usual, that concentrated her mind.
Morrie Sutton had got his warrant and gone off with DI Gray and a locksmith to open the safe in the basement of the Burwell Street brothel. Although none of the women had made a complaint, Joni had insisted social services have them examined by a doctor. No one was in any doubt that they’d been subjected to prolonged sexual abuse and their lack of possessions suggested they were hardly there by choice. Morrie hadn’t told her what had been found in the safe, saying only that he’d meet her at the hospital later. The man was a dick, but she had to work with him. At least Nick Etherington lived outside Corham and she’d been given responsibility for him, though re-interviewing him would have to wait until he finished school tomorrow.
As she dried herself, Joni thought of the Albanian women. She had gone to the hostel and spoken to them again, telling them to stay there. They looked at each other, and exchanged sentences in their own language. Only two of them spoke Italian, saying the others came from Kosovo.
‘We will look after you,’ Joni said, even though she had no idea what social services and the UKBA would decide. ‘Don’t go back to the people who made you do that terrible work.’
There was more chatter in the language she couldn’t understand.
‘We have stay here?’ one of them asked, in Italian. She was thin and physically underdeveloped – a girl still. ‘We go?’
‘Not yet,’ Joni replied, with a sigh. Maybe moving the focus away from them would bear fruit. ‘The other woman. Is there nothing you can tell me about her?’
The thin girl translated for the others, one of whom spoke at some length.
‘OK, we say this. Her name Suzana. This woman here, she in room below. She many times hear screaming from woman. Much – how say? – banging on floor. She fight with man Leka.’
The others hissed at her. Joni looked as impassive as she could. It was the first time a male name had been mentioned.
‘He kept you in the house?’ she asked, her voice low.
‘Yes, Leka bad,’ her interlocutor said, ignoring the objections. ‘He … he hurt us, he beat us if not make men happy.’ She paused, staring at Joni. ‘This Suzana, she always fight. We … we frightened.’ She let out a sob.
Joni squeezed her knee, wondering if Leka was the dead man. The women had been given ill-fitting but clean clothes and the thin one was wearing faded jeans. ‘Listen to me. You never have to work for this man or his friends again. You are safe now.’
The young woman shook her head slowly. ‘We never safe. We work till old and ugly.’
Nothing more had been said, but Joni felt she’d established a link, albeit an indirect one, with the fugitive woman Suzana. If she’d found Joni’s card, they knew each other’s names. Suddenly they had become closer.
24
‘Where the fuck’s Gaz?’
‘Dunno, Kylie. He isn’t answering his phone.’
‘I fuckin’ know that, Pumpkinhead.’
‘I called his mother. She told me he wasn’t there and if I saw him to say she’s thrown out his sweaty footie kit.’
‘Jesus, he won’t like that.’
‘Then she told me to fuck off.’
‘Get that a lot, don’t you?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Ha ha. You call the others?’
‘Aye. Hot Rod was still asleep.’
‘Bet he told you to fuck off too.’
‘Aye. Jackie was shagging his lass. He told me to fuck off an’ all.’
‘What about Daryll?’
‘He didn’t tell me to fuck off.’
‘That must have been nice. Anything else?’
‘Nah. He was getting ready to go for a run.’
‘He’s too fucking healthy, that lad. So no one’s got a clue then?’
‘Including you.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘See you in the Grapes later?’
‘Aye. Gaz’ll probably turn up with some tart.’
‘Aye. Got any pills?’
‘I told you last night, those things’ll mess your head up even more.’
‘Aye. So have you?’
‘Aye.’
‘Good.’
‘Fuck off.’
25
Morrie Sutton and Nathan Gray were waiting for Joni on the third floor of Corham General.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ DS Gray said quickly. He was fair-haired and blue-eyed with a reputation as a skirt chaser, though he’d never had the nerve to try anything with Joni.
‘What do you think about the fact that this is now a murder case?’ DI Sutton said, smiling slackly. ‘My murder case.’
Joni eyed him with distaste. ‘You’ve got even more reason to go after the woman who carried out the attacks. Despite the fact that she’d have been forced into sex slavery and was probably defending herself.’
The two male detectives avoided her gaze. She’d heard Gray refer to her as ‘Pam’ rather than the more common ‘Jackie’, but that didn’t bother her. Pam Grier had done serious damage to numerous men in her movies, not that Joni enjoyed them.
‘Are you going to tell me what you found in the safe?’
DI Sutton no
dded. ‘Passports for all the girls, including the missing one – Suzana Noli is her name. They all came in legally through Heathrow last October. The guy who died was called Leka Asllani. I asked DC Andrews to run him and the rest of them through HOLMES and the other digital databases.’
‘What are the other women’s names?’ Joni asked.
They stared at her.
‘I’m going to talk to them again. Can I have copies of the passport pages with their photos so I can match them to their names?’
Sutton nodded without enthusiasm. ‘In the meantime, you and I need to talk to the surviving pimp.’ He handed her an open passport in a clear plastic bag. ‘Blerim Dost – Jesus, these people have crazy names. Born in some godforsaken hole called Bajram, 19 November 1976. Like all of them, he’s got a ninety-day visitor’s visa that expired in January. He probably has documentation in other names – most of the pimps and hard men do – but it wasn’t in the house.’
Joni stepped back as a nurse hurried down the corridor. ‘What else did you find?’
Morrie Sutton grinned. ‘Over ten grand in well-used notes and a load of credit cards that are probably clones.’
Joni looked at the two of them impatiently. ‘I can tell there was more.’
Nathan Gray held up another plastic bag, this one containing small sachets of white powder.’
‘There was over a kilo of this. The rest’s at the lab, though there’s a skeleton staff till tomorrow. Cocaine, and it’s pretty heavily cut.’
Joni decided against asking how he’d ascertained that. Gray didn’t give the impression of being an innocent when it came to drugs.
DI Sutton took the bag from him. ‘Oh, and there were three sets of knuckle dusters, all encrusted with blood, two combat knives and … what else, Nate?’
The DS grinned. ‘Three Sig P239 9mm semi-automatic pistols and twenty-four full eight-round clips. The lab will check them for prints and draw up ballistic profiles.’
Joni knew that Nathan Gray was a guns freak who spent his summer holidays in countries where pistol shooting was legal. That didn’t mean she was going to encourage him. She’d seen what guns could do in London. One of the big advantages of working for Pofnee was that she hadn’t come up against firearms. Until now.
‘See if you can borrow a photocopier and run off DI Pax’s copies of the hookers’ passports, lad.’ Morrie Sutton felt the intensity of Joni’s gaze. ‘What? That’s what they are.’
‘Sex slaves is a more accurate term. All right, how do you want to play this?’
‘Simple. I ask a question, you translate it, then you translate the scumbag’s answer. If there is one, which I’m not holding my breath for.’
‘Sure you don’t want a fag first?’ Joni asked. ‘Good, because I’m pressed for time.’ She had no intention of acting as Morrie’s interpreter. How was he to know what she said to the Albanian? ‘You brought the coke to loosen his tongue, I presume.’
Sutton nodded, turning away.
‘I presume DCI Rutherford knows about these developments,’ Joni called after him.
‘Aye, he does. Wouldn’t do to keep the senior investigating officer in the dark, would it, lass?’
Joni went after him, biting her tongue. He was nothing compared with the worst of the Met’s male officers, but he still irritated her. Which, of course, was exactly what he wanted.
26
Michael Etherington’s fishing trip was a waste of time. The sun brightened even more quickly than he expected and he gave up at midday. He went first to his own house to drop off his fishing tackle. It was a couple of miles west of the one he’d shared with Rosie and Nick after his son and wife died. He told himself he was doing that to support his daughter-in-law and grandson, but he knew that was only part of the story. The fact was, he missed Christine badly and didn’t like spending the night in the house they’d shared. It had been his refuge and he thought of it daily when he was on active duty abroad; his wife too.
Rosie was preparing lunch. She gave him a sad smile. ‘Nick still hasn’t come down.’
He touched her shoulder. It was fleshless like much of her body. She’d always been slim, but since Alistair’s death she’d become a wraith. The curious thing was she’d never given the impression that she cared much for his son, especially not when the drink took him over. She was an unfathomable woman.
‘I’ll go and talk to him.’
Nick was still under the covers.
‘Bloody farce,’ Michael said. ‘You were right not to come. Not a bite all morning.’ He sat down on the bed. ‘Tell you what. How about we go up to Favon Hall in the afternoon. You can drive – you need the practice. We’ll put your bike in the back so you can come back under your own steam. I don’t want to hang around like a wallflower.’
Nick’s head appeared. ‘Thanks, Gramps. I’ll call Evie.’
Michael winked. ‘Why not make it a surprise? In my experience women like surprises.’
‘OK.’ Nick smiled tentatively. ‘She never goes out anyway.’
The trip north was smooth enough. Nick was a decent driver but, to his embarrassment, had failed his test six months earlier. He was calm enough and his reactions were good. According to the examiner, he had pulled out twice without checking his mirror. Michael had been surprised by that, as well as concerned. Did his grandson’s usually imperturbable exterior conceal roiling depths like those that had done for Alistair?
‘Well done, lad’ he said, as Nick turned into the gate of the Favon estate. A long, tree-lined drive led to the Hall. ‘Smooth as … I don’t know what.’
‘An attack by Julius Caesar?’
Michael laughed. Clearly the prospect of seeing Evie had restored the boy’s spirits. He looked at the buildings ahead.
Favon Hall had been built by the first lord in the 1760s. It was a rather ugly Palladian block. Behind it rose an older building, a medieval tower that had often been besieged by Scottish raiders under the original owners. The last scion of that family, an unmarried twenty-year-old, had been killed at Culloden, enabling the newly ennobled Favon to buy the tower and a large area of surrounding land, both arable and moor, at a bargain price.
Nick pulled up by the wide staircase that led to the main entrance, beside a black Mazda sports car.
‘Looks like Victoria’s home,’ Michael said. ‘I’ll come in for a word.’
Nick was already out of the door, bag of books in his hand. There was no doubt he was passionate about the girl. Michael followed him, happy that his grandson was experiencing love but worried about the young people’s future together. And they were very young…
Lady Favon answered the door herself.
‘Nicholas!’ she said, her meticulously painted red lips parting in a smile that was more than welcoming. ‘What a lovely surprise! I’m so pleased to see you.’ She looked past him. ‘Hello, Michael. Babysitting?’
‘Good afternoon, Victoria,’ the major general said coolly, running his eye over the viscountess. She was dressed in a well-cut white blouse and a black skirt that hung just above the knee. As ever, her heels were high and her legs sheathed in black stockings or tights, he couldn’t tell the difference. Knowing Victoria, he’d bet on the former. ‘Nick would like to do some revision with Evie.’
‘Oh, never mind her,’ Victoria said, smoothing back strands of blonde hair. ‘She’s got her nose in the family secrets as usual. Come and sit down for a minute, the pair of you. I haven’t had two good-looking men in the drawing room for weeks.’
Nick gave his grandfather a reluctant look and then followed him and their hostess across the black-and-white tiled floor. Portraits of Andrew Favon’s ancestors hung in the hall and up the marble staircase, their faces bland but their eyes piercing and acquisitive.
Victoria opened the double doors that led into a spacious room with French windows and surprisingly chintzy decor. The furniture was a mixture of faded heirlooms and incongruous modern additions.
‘Here, Nicholas,’ Lady Favon s
aid, sitting on a floral-covered settee and patting the cushion next to her. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to.’
Michael watched from across the low table as Victoria held her gaze on his grandson. Although she must have been forty now, she was still a striking woman – if anything, even more attractive than when she was younger. Her figure was stunning.
‘Nothing much,’ he muttered.
‘What did you get up to last night?’ Victoria asked, lighting a cigarette with deft movements.
The question brought red patches to Nick’s cheeks. ‘Well, I…’
‘He dressed up like a traffic light,’ Michael said, in attempt to distract the siren.
‘Gramps,’ Nick complained.
Lady Favon laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, giving the older man a conspiratorial look. ‘I’m sure we’ve all done much worse.’
I’m sure you have, Michael thought. Victoria’s reputation was…
‘Nick!’ Evie came through the open doors faster than someone using an arm crutch would be expected to do. Tall, slim and with short brown hair, she was attractive, but not in her mother’s class. She sat down beside the young man and kissed him on the cheek. ‘What a lovely surprise!’
Michael couldn’t suppress a smile. Victoria looked put out as the youngsters started to talk to each other in low voices.
‘We’re going to the library,’ Evie said, standing up in a practised move that still made her frown. ‘I’ve found the most amazing story.’
‘I’m sure,’ Victoria said icily. ‘Have … fun.’ Her eyes were fixed on Nick as the pair headed away.
‘Andrew not around?’ Michael said, breaking the silence that ensued.
‘What? Oh, he’s out on the moors with Dan Reston. Something to do with sheep.’
Michael stood up. ‘I’ll be off then. Nick’s coming home on his bike. I’ll leave it by the steps.’
Victoria Favon nodded, the smile returning to her lips.
Carnal Acts Page 7