Her good grandfather had sometimes taken her with him to the high pasture in the summer. Her parents didn’t approve, but the old man had seniority and they had to obey him. They set off before sunrise and reached the plateau by midday. Her grandfather’s dogs accepted her presence, though they wouldn’t allow her to stroke them. She didn’t mind. She had a twisted crook in her hand and the smell of grass and herbs was on the cooling wind. After an hour she was gasping for breath. Her grandfather told her to keep going and eventually she found that breathing came more easily and the ache in her thighs passed.
‘Wait,’ the old man said, touching her bare forearm. His eyes were still good and they had caught movement in the trees behind the flock of long-tailed, shorn sheep.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘The Popi,’ he answered, spitting. ‘Those brigands always take what they want.’ He unslung his rifle and shifted the bolt.
‘The Popi are dangerous,’ Suzana said, spouting the words she’d often heard from her parents. ‘We don’t get involved with them.’
‘The Popi are louts,’ her grandfather said. ‘They’re too lazy to tend to animals, so they steal. I’ve had enough of them.’
She followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Grandpa, there are three men. They’re young.’
‘I don’t care.’ The old man looked down the rifle and fired.
She saw a man fall back, his arms outspread. The others looked in their direction, ducking when Grandpa loosed off another four shots. He changed magazines. By the time he raised the weapon again, the survivors had disappeared into the trees.
After waiting a while, the old man got up. ‘Come, girl. Not only are they thieves, but they’re cowards.’
They crossed the meadow, the animals having run off as soon as the first shot echoed out.
‘See?’ Grandpa said, pointing at a sheep carcass, the rear legs cut off close to the spine and the belly open. ‘This is what the dishonourable scum do.’ He turned to the man lying a few metres away. The top of his head had been taken off by the bullet. ‘And this is what they get.’
Suzana trembled as the old man knelt by the sheep, knife in hand. He hacked away and held out a bloody mass to her.
‘Here, the liver. It gives great strength if you eat it raw.’
Although she hadn’t thought she could, she swallowed it all, blood covering her face. And Grandpa was right. For the rest of the day she ran around ceaselessly as he checked the other animals. She wasn’t even tired when they got back to the village. The family ate the meat the old man had butchered. The next day he was stabbed in the throat as he walked down the street and the Popi came for the rest of them. She didn’t know what was said and only much later did she understand. Her father was forced to give up his children. The Popi waited until the time was right and took her, passing her on to the men of the larger Spahia clan. They’d have come for her sister by now too. And maybe they’d killed her parents just for the sake of it.
It took her some time, but Suzana caught a sheep shortly before the last light died. She knew her way around a carcass and soon satisfied her hunger. Out of necessity she had become a thief like the Popi. She retreated – for all she knew, the shepherds here came every morning to check on their charges – and curled up in a hollow by a stream. The blood on her face had dried and she didn’t bother to wash it off. Besides, there would be blood all over her clothes, even though she slept with the skin she’d removed with the fleece facing inwards.
In her dreams she was slashing at the men who killed Grandpa. When she woke up in the chill grey of dawn, she thought she might be in luck. Maybe the Popi, who specialised in retribution, were on her trail now and she’d be able to avenge the old man’s murder. Before she put a blade to her own throat.
73
Back home, Joni called Roland Malpas on her mobile. This time her former Met colleague answered immediately.
‘Guess who, Ro.’
‘Pam! I’ve been a fan for ages. I loved you in Coffey, but Foxy Brown was the killer for me.’
Joni let him have his fun. The bits she’d seen of the Pam Grier blaxploitation movies had left her cold because of their casual violence.
‘They call me Jackie up here,’ she said. ‘Tarantino’s film is even more patronising if you ask me, but that’s not why I called.’
‘No, I guessed not. Just out of interest, what is your favourite movie?’ Ro was exacting as much as he could from the situation – she could imagine him telling the rest of the homicide squad what she said. She could only hope he had something about the Popi for her.
‘I’m not really a big film watcher,’ she said. ‘Maybe The Leopard?’
‘What? I don’t know that one.’
Una vera sorpresa, she thought. If Roland Malpas had sat through Visconti’s three-hour version of di Lampedusa’s great novel, she’d have eaten the hat that Suzana left behind in the wood.
‘The Popi, Ro,’ she prompted.
‘Ah, right. I’ve asked around. Looks like you’ve got trouble.’ He couldn’t completely disguise his satisfaction. Joni knew that, deep down, he was resentful she had put her life on the line for him. ‘The Popi aren’t just any old Albanian gang.’
‘Clan,’ she put in, deciding to pick him up on anything she could.
‘Yeah, I mean clan. The family that stays together et cetera’
‘Get on with it, Ro. We have homicides up here too, you know. Clock ticking…’
There was a pause as he took in her tone. ‘Of course. Anyway, the Popi seems to be a clan within the clans. They’re mainly connected with a family called Spahia.’ He spelled the name out. ‘They’ve made it big in Italy and even in the States. They’re into drugs, people trafficking, porn, smuggling, armed robbery, hostage taking – anything you like, really. A few of them have been caught, but no one important. In recent years, the Spahia have moved into the UK. They’re based in London, but it seems they’re setting up shop in the major provincial cities.’
‘The Spahia?’ Joni checked the spelling. ‘So what about the Popi?’
‘Ah, that’s where it gets interesting. As in, “May you live in interesting times”.’ Roland Malpas waited for her to respond, but she let the Chinese cliché go. ‘Er, the Popi are like the SAS of the Albanian clans. They get sent in when the ordinary guys – who aren’t exactly shrinking violets – need support. The thing with them is they leave no trace.’
‘What do you mean? SOCOs can always pick up something at a scene.’
‘Yeah, but they never leave anything that leads to them. You know how they do that? By killing everyone present, usually as messily as possible. Remember those dope dealers who got taken out in Epping Forest a year back?’
The case had caused a lot of talk, even though Homicide South-west wasn’t involved. Four Essex wide boys had muscled in somewhere they shouldn’t. They were found with their intestines wound round each other’s necks.
‘That was the Popi?’
‘So the rumour mill says. As you can imagine, there isn’t much to go on and people – even ours – don’t discuss them willingly.’
Joni sat back, one hand on her scars. ‘Thanks, Ro.’
‘Before you rush off, one more thing. Another way the Popi leave no trace is that they hire outside killers to do their dirty work. Not necessary Albanians.’
Joni thought about that. ‘Interesting. Thanks again.’
‘That’s OK. But we’re even, right?’ He rang off – proving that ‘goodbye’ had gone missing in action down south as well.
Joni spent half an hour preparing and eating a bean salad, then sat down with her laptop. Several Italian criminology journals she subscribed to stood between her and sleep. It was as she finished taking notes on the last one that she found herself querying Malpas’s motives for passing on the information. Joni had called him, but she had a feeling Ro would have been in touch himself. Although he hadn’t disguised his dislike for Joni, he’d still come up with the goods. Why?
As a last gesture of support for a former colleague? Unlikely. To scare her? That had the undeniable ring of truth.
Joni smiled and, ten minutes later, was in bed. Roland Malpas didn’t frighten her. Her default mode was to respond well to challenges. Sleep came almost immediately.
74
Moonbeam Pax didn’t usually watch the television, not least because her set was old and the signal in the foothills was poor. That evening she had been making an offering to the Great Mother and channelling all her positive energy into it had exhausted her. She turned on the late news and slumped in her single, cat-shredded armchair.
‘…search for the killer of the unnamed male victim found in the River Coquet has started. The body was found this morning by Brian Sweeney, who was walking his dog.’ The screen showed a man whiter than the most starched sheet. ‘Unconfirmed reports say that the victim’s head and hands had been removed.’
Moonbeam sat up straight. The decapitation of enemies and display of human skulls had been prevalent in Celtic times and still played a large part in certain forms of magic. Not hers, of course. She looked around the cottage’s main room. On the walls she had a crocodile skull that a friend had brought back from Egypt – it had been blessed by a wise woman who followed the old religion there – and one of a small monkey. She used them in spells. It had never occurred to her to seek out a man’s skull, though there was a certain temptation to do so. Human heads had great power. She wondered if there was a way she could get her hands on the one that had been taken from the man in the river. The idea that it may have been cleansed in running water made it even more enticing.
Then she tuned into the news again.
‘…that the head and hands may have been used to prevent the victim’s identity being discovered, as criminal gangs have been known to do.’
Moonbeam sat back as another, much more run-of-the-mill story was reported. A human head. Hands too – they had numerous ritual uses, especially if the dead man had used them in significant ways.
No, she told herself, getting up and going into the kitchen. The liquid in the pot was covered in a grey-pink scum now and she scooped it away. The skeleton of the salmon was almost clean of meat. The next day she would bury it in the garden, consigning the remains of the lithe creature to the earth mother. No, it was too risky. The man she’d got the fish from could obtain anything, or so he said. He’d never let her down and the steel in his eyes suggested he was capable of anything.
Moonbeam concentrated on lifting the flesh on to a plate with a strain. The man she’d attracted would love it. Joni had no idea, but her mother could cook very well when she had to. Joni. She’d be involved in the headless man case, though she hadn’t appeared on TV. A tremor ran through Moonbeam’s body. Yes, she thought. Everything is coming together. I’ve finally found a compliant man in the right place. Joni will come to understand the power of nature and its manifestation in her. And the rich, thieves and destroyers of their fellow human beings, will see their stratagems come to naught…
75
The morning briefing: Heck, feeling much better, started with the search for Suzana Noli. He ran through the events of the previous day, underplaying his own part in them.
‘Great tackle, sir,’ Pete Rokeby said, grinning at the double entendre.
Even Mrs Normal laughed – for a couple of seconds.
‘Anyway,’ Heck said, when the noise died down, ‘the fork wound to the head and comparison of the photo in the passport from the brothel safe confirm that the biker is Elez Zymberi, the third Albanian attacked by the missing girl at the house in Burwell Street. He kept his mouth shut till Lennox’s legal eagle turned up – DI Pax tried him in Italian – and, surprise, surprise, afterwards. None of the three Albanians has any form on HOLMES or the other databases.’
‘We’ve got this Zymberi for illegal possession of the hand gun and ammunition clips,’ Roger Underwood piped up. The Crime Prosecution Service lawyer was wearing a flash pinstriped suit. ‘There won’t be any problem getting him remanded.’
‘What about the motorbike?’ Heck asked.
DC Andrews raised a hand. ‘The engine number and other identifying marks square with one stolen in Cornwall.’
‘So we can do him for that too,’ Heck said.
Underwood nodded.
‘None of which gets us very far since he isn’t talking,’ the ACC said. ‘Let’s move on.’
Heck looked at his notes. ‘Wayne Garston, the ganger. Where are we with him?’
‘He was released yesterday evening,’ Pete Rokeby said, giving Ruth Dickie an unimpressed look. ‘Got a slap on the wrists for running from us.’
‘He thinks we’ve lost interest in him,’ the ACC said. ‘When we go back, he’ll be vulnerable.’
Heck nodded, resisting the temptation to say ‘Good thinking’ to his boss. ‘Are Garston’s workers legit?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Pete said. ‘EU nationals. The Border Agency cleared them.’
The briefing continued with tasks being allocated, but there was a definite air of sluggishness. The investigations were stalling and everyone knew it.
Heck and Joni attended the autopsy of the man without head and hands in the mortuary at Corham General. Unlike the old days when detectives had to wear surgical garb and stand in close proximity to the deceased, they were now able to observe from behind the glass screen in the viewing gallery. Dr Volpert’s voice was coming through speakers in the ceiling.
‘…of approximately thirty years … head and hands severed by a well-honed, single, serrated blade … genitalia normal … height estimated at six feet and one inch … weight twelve stone … both knees show small healed incisions from what appears to be laparoscopic surgery … both feet display recent contusions, both big toes bent inwards, indicative of tight shoes…’
‘He’s a sportsman,’ Heck said to Joni. ‘Skinny to be a rugby player and Big Bertha hasn’t said anything about marks elsewhere on his body, which you’d expect. Footballer’s my guess.’
Joni shrugged, out of her depth with contact sports.
‘At that height he was probably a centre back. Not a pro or a high profile amateur because we’d have heard he’d gone missing. Probably a Sunday player. He’s got a bit of a gut on him.’
Dr Volpert’s voice droned on as she performed the Y-incision and removed the victim’s internal organs. Her minions moved around quickly, collecting and weighing what she held up. The diminutive pathologist had a reputation for savaging fools and insubordinate inferiors. Joni watched impassively, while Heck shifted from foot to foot. He never used to be bothered by the insides of dead folk, but since his operation he’d become squeamish. That would teach him. He thought tackling the Albanian yesterday had dealt with his fear of going one on one and it had, but a sense of his own mortality was strong in Big Bertha’s realm.
His phone rang.
‘Heck, this is Lee Young.’
‘Aye, aye, what’s up?’
‘I think I might have found out who your headless guy is.’
Heck took a deep breath. Being in his former colleague’s debt was not a pleasant prospect. Still, if it got the job done…
‘So?’
‘You’d better come over to the MCU here. It’s complicated and guess what?’
Heck had a bad feeling about where this was going.
‘The Albanians are involved.’
‘That’s interesting. Have you nailed them?’
‘That’s the complication. Come on over.’
Heck stared at his phone when the connection was broken. Lee Young had always been one for power games and now he had Heck at a disadvantage. But he could hardly not go over to the building he’d worked in for years.
‘Fancy a trip to the big city?’
‘What, London?’
He gave her a glare. ‘No, Newcastle.’
‘No.’
‘Well, you’re coming anyway.’
‘OK, but I want to talk to the ganger first. Pete ca
n come with me on his way up to the moors.
‘All right, but be quick about it.’
‘Later on I’ll tell you what I found out about the Popi.’
‘Good?’
‘Very much not.’
76
Michael Etherington was worried about his grandson. Given that he had A-levels in a month, he was too bloody happy, though less so this morning. It was obviously because of Evie Favon. He couldn’t fault Nick’s taste. Evie was a delight and she had guts. Coming back from multiple leg fractures wasn’t child’s play and she’d started walking before the doctors had expected. She was smart too.
When he’d run Nick to school, his grandson talked about Saturday’s cricket match. It was the last he was going to play for the Abbey and he needed to score over fifty to keep his three-year average in the sixties. It was a needle match with Moorden and they had a pair of handy fast bowlers.
‘Can you take me up to Favon Hall again this afternoon, Gramps?’
Michael glanced at him. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? How much work are you getting done there?’
‘Plenty. Evie’s a big help.’
‘Yes, but you’ve only got English in common. What about your other subjects?’
‘I’ve got them covered, don’t worry.’
‘All right. I trust you, lad.’
‘Thanks.’ Nick looked out of the side window for a while. ‘Lord Favon, is he right in the head?’
‘What’s Andrew done now?’
‘I’m … I’m not sure.’
Michael took the road into Corham. ‘He’s not the brightest star in the galaxy, if that’s what you mean.’ He glanced at his grandson. ‘What is it?’
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