‘Ladylike is also off limits. Who are we going to talk to first?’
‘Much though I’d like to see Pumpkinhead in the flesh, it’s going to have to be Kylie.’
‘I’ve heard that name somewhere.’
Heck stared at her to check she was serious. On further enquiry, he found that his DI really didn’t have a clue about the owner of Australia’s most famous backside.
79
Close to the far side of the moor where she’d spent the night, Suzana heard the sound of the quad bike on the breeze. She recognised it instantly. Some of the local youths had bought such machines to drive like madmen down her village’s narrow streets and across the fields. She was about fifty metres from one of the huge metal columns. She ran to take cover behind it. A barbed-wire fence made that impossible. Looking up, she tried to work out what the great propeller with red tips on the blades was for as it turned rapidly in the wind. There was a sign on the fence that she recognised – a jagged bolt with an arrow pointing downwards. Were they making electricity from these lonely giants? If they put them on the wind-blasted peaks above her village, they could light up the whole of Europe.
The angry buzz of the bike – ‘sows’ in her language – came closer and she looked round the circular metal wall. There was a single man wearing a black woollen hat, with a weapon – a shotgun, she thought – over one shoulder. He was coming straight for her column. She took out the longer of her knives and crouched down. Beyond the ridge was a steep and rocky slope. If she could make it there, the sow wouldn’t be able to follow.
Taking a deep breath, she made a dash for it, trying to keep the column between herself and her pursuer. The sheepskin was tied round her neck with the dried blood outwards, and it occurred to her that the man might get angry when he saw it; perhaps he’d already found the carcass and it was his. She ducked as she heard the shot, the wind carrying the pellets away. Bastard. She started to change direction, running only a few paces before cutting to one side. Another shot rang out, the pellets whipping by, not near enough to hit her. He was trying to scare her into submission. The sow was getting nearer and the rocky chasm was still at least fifty metres away.
Suzana kept ducking and weaving, but the quad bike was close. She was about to turn and face the man when she was hit in the side by a boot and went crashing down on a piece of rough ground. The knife she’d been holding skittered away across the dry mud. Before she could get up, the man was on her, the stationary sow’s engine sputtering. He straddled her, his weight forcing all the air from her lungs. He was talking but she couldn’t understand the words. She struggled to reach the shorter knife inside the leather jacket. He understood she was up to something and grabbed her hand.
Aware of what was going to happen, Suzana forced herself to go limp. She had done that with Leka and it sometimes reduced his lust. This time it didn’t happen. The man, heavy-faced, unshaven and probably in his forties, was desperate for her. He tore open the jacket and ripped at the clothing beneath. She lay still, averting her eyes. She knew that staring at the pigs only made them deal out more pain. His rough fingers found her breasts and pulled the nipples, then they went lower, tugging at her zip.
‘Sheep,’ he kept saying, ‘sheep.’ She couldn’t understand why he was referring to her country, even though the pronunciation was way off. What did he care where she came from and how did he know that Albanians called the country Shqipëri? Or was he one of those foreigner-hating thugs who came to the slave house and swore at her as they penetrated her from behind?
Then she saw a blur to the right and heard a solid thud. The man on top of her crashed downwards, his face hitting the ground as she rolled quickly to the side. He was pulled away. Suzana sat up and looked into the eyes of a wet-mouthed and growling dog. Turning her head slowly, she saw another one. Then a man stepped up. This one was wearing a woollen hat that covered his face. He’d hit her attacker with a heavy piece of wood.
That was all she saw before her head exploded in a burst of stars.
80
Nick went up the steps to Favon Hall. The door was opened before he got to it.
‘Ah, Nicholas,’ Victoria said, smiling. ‘How lovely to see you. Michael not staying again? He really must have something against me.’
‘Maybe he does,’ Nick said, sidestepping his hostess. ‘Evie’s in the library, I suppose.’
‘Where else, darling boy?’
Nick stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘I’ve turned eighteen so technically I’m not a boy any more. And as for darling…’ He smiled harshly. ‘I don’t think so.’
Evie met him at the library door and caught sight of her mother standing like a pillar in the hall.
‘What happened?’ she asked, after they’d kissed.
‘I might have said something she didn’t like.’ Nick told her what had happened.
Evie laughed shrilly. ‘Oh Nick, good for you! That’ll teach the old man-eater.’
He raised his shoulders. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her. I just think she’s out of order.’
‘What a sweet soul you are.’ She kissed him again.
‘I hope we’re not doing slavery, torture and voodoo again.’
‘No, I know you don’t like that. I’ve made a vow to ignore my family history.’ She gave him a crooked smile. ‘Anything to keep hold of you.’ She pulled him towards the table, jettisoning her crutch.
‘Evie … I’m sorry about last night. I … you frightened me. It isn’t right to hate your family so much. It’s not your parents’ fault that they have the house and estate. What do you want them to do? Sell it all off and give the money to charity?’
‘That’d be a start,’ Evie said, under her breath. ‘You’re right, Nick, you’re right.’ She put her hand on his groin.
Soon they were naked. Their limbs entwined and they both started to sigh.
Then the library door opened. From beneath the table they could see Lady Favon’s black pumps and red-sheathed legs below the hem of her skirt.
The laughter was unexpected and coarse.
‘Really, Nicholas, I hardly think this is appropriate,’ Victoria said. ‘I’ll have to tell my husband.’ She turned to go. ‘And Rosie and Michael, of course.’
Evie sniggered after the door closed. ‘What’s happened to you? I’ve seen harder chocolate eclairs. Forget it. We’re both over the legal age. Who cares if she tells?’
Nick looked away. He wasn’t keen on his mother finding out, not least because she would demand that he revise at his desk in future. Gramps wouldn’t be a problem. He had a woman himself somewhere, Nick was sure – he was forever disappearing on drives that were curiously vague. No, what really worried him was Lord Favon’s reaction. Not on behalf of his daughter – as if he cared about Evie – but because of the other thing…
‘Come on, handsome,’ Evie said, grinning. ‘I’ve been looking forward to the pole vault.’
It took some time, but she got her wish.
81
‘What do you reckon?’ Heck asked, as he drove them back to Corham in the late afternoon.
‘It’s a bit hard to be sure without the head.’
‘Aye, but that Kylie fella said Gary Frizzell had both his knees operated on three years ago.’
Joni nodded. ‘Did them in playing football in the local leagues. You were right, sir. The problem is, we’re no further on about what Frizzell, assuming it’s him, was doing getting into a Bentley.’
‘Lee said he’d interviewed the witness, a car mechanic, but he’d been stoned and pissed and couldn’t remember the number.’
‘Yes, but there can’t be that many Bentleys of that model around here.’
‘More than you might think, but I’m sure Lee will track them down.’ He glanced at her. ‘He’s a decent cop.’
‘But an indecent human being?’
‘Something like that.’
Joni watched as the buildings thinned out and the dual carriageway moved through the countryside
. She felt a wave of relief. A few months in Corham had turned her into a bumpkin.
‘I don’t see why the Albanian who cut Hot Rod Miller’s throat hasn’t been arrested. So what that Lennox is his brief?’
‘I’d guess Lee’s playing a long game with the Albanians. His people will be keeping an eye on the Stars and Bars.’
Joni pulled down the sunshade. ‘Do you think Frizzell was a dope dealer? The Albanians are into drugs, according to my ex-colleague down south. Maybe he crossed them and they took the kind of revenge that the Popi specialise in.’
‘Maybe, but we’ll have to leave Lee to sweat that out of the guys he’s got in custody.’
‘Smart move by the Albanians, wasn’t it?’
‘You mean not resorting to violence when the idiots went back? Aye, but it blows a hole in your idea about them being hyper-violent. Besides, what kind of an example is it when no one knows who he is?’
‘Dr Volpert will confirm his identity from the notes on his knee surgery. It was laparoscopy, so the surgeon who did it can check his work.’
Heck nodded, taking the exit near the paper factory on the outskirts of Corham.
Joni’s phone rang. It was Pete Rokeby. She listened, asked some questions and then hung up.
‘What was that about?’
‘No sign of Suzana on the moors, but the search team found an abandoned quad bike by one of the wind turbines. Pete ran the number. It’s registered to an—’
‘Oliver Forrest.’
‘How do you know that?’
Heck tapped his nose. ‘Hunch, instinct, call it what you will. I’ve got it in … nay, not really. I was at school with him. His father had the biggest sheep farm on the moors when I was a kid. Must have spent dozens of weekends up there. Ollie took it over when the old bugger died a while back.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Up there. I should have been on that team myself. I know the moors better than anyone in it.’
Joni remembered what Ag had asked her to do, but kept silent. The truth was, she liked it when Heck was in the field.
82
Oliver Forrest woke up, his head splitting. He couldn’t see and he panicked, realising he was tied down by his wrists and ankles. Or cuffed, more like. He felt the metal against his skin. He shouted at the top of his voice, the sound echoing round an enclosed space. No one came. There was no sound apart from his ragged breathing. He inhaled deeply and picked up the smell of damp cut with something sweeter. Was it blood? No, more like perfume. How could that be? What had happened?
Forrest concentrated, blocking out the pain from his bone-dry throat. He thought back to the afternoon – was it the same day? He had topped the rise on the quad bike and stopped, standing up to scan the horizon. To the west the wind turbines strode away along the ridge. The surrounding landowners had got huge grants to erect the metal monsters and more were going up on the northern ridge. The great blades stood above the trees like medieval torture wheels; he remembered them from school history. To the east, his own land sloped away, the sheep in batches near the forest’s edge, far from the remains of their fellow creature. Yes, that was it. He’d found one of his ewes butchered. The crows had made a mess of her, but he could see that some fucker had skinned the animal skilfully and hacked off the best of the meat. Yon was definitely a deid ’un.
So where was the butcher? He could be anywhere by now – the animal was stiff. The ground was very uneven. Streams cut through the heather and ancient rock faces broke up the grassland. Probably long gone. Ollie had sat down with a snort. Then his phone rang.
‘Mr Forrest? My name’s Detective Sergeant Peter Rokeby.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘I’m leading a search party on your land.’
‘Search for what?’
‘Maybe you’ve seen it in the news. Young Albanian woman killed one of her countrymen and injured another two?’
Ollie had seen that, but he played dumb. ‘And you reckon this lass is on the moor?’
‘We do. If you see her, don’t approach her. She’s armed and dangerous.’
‘Right you are. I’ll probably see you up here at some point.’
‘Did you not see us yesterday afternoon, sir? I called at your house.’
‘Nay, lad. The wife’s car was in for service so I had to pick her and the lad up in Corham.’ He cut the connection.
So, he thought, one of the tarts from the Burwell Street knocking shop was on the loose. He’d have to be quick if the coppers were already on the moor. He’d never had her – he stuck to the same tart, an older one who didn’t care what he did. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have the young one now, knives or no knives. And if she’d slaughtered his beast, she was fair game.
He stood up on the bike again. Was that a black spot near the wind turbines to the west? His eyesight wasn’t as good as it had been. Maybe his mother had been right about too much wanking. Yes, it was moving. Must be her. With a raging fire in his belly, Ollie gunned the engine and roared off. The other woman only knew a few words of English, most of them to do with shagging. He didn’t care. He’d never been one for conversation with members of the fair sex, the wife included.
And he’d got her, he remembered, he was on top of her, pulling her clothes apart. Then he fell into a very dark pit.
Yelling again and pulling against his bonds, Ollie Forrest realised his roving eye had finally landed him in a sea of shit.
83
Joni and Heck met Pete Rokeby by the wind turbines. It was early evening and the big Jeep bounced hard over the track from the farm. They had stopped there and Heck spoke to Ollie Forrest’s wife, Lizzie. She hadn’t seen him since early morning, when she had left for Corham with their son Jack. She’d spent the rest of the day in the bookshop where she worked.
‘I wouldn’t worry, Heck,’ she said. ‘You know what he’s like. He’ll be stalking rabbits.’
‘It isn’t safe,’ Heck said seriously. ‘There’s a woman who has already killed on the loose. Make sure all your windows are closed and lock the doors. I’ll leave an officer outside till we find him.’
They reached the truck on which the quad bike had been loaded, under supervision of a SOCO.
‘Pancake,’ Heck said, getting out. ‘No sign of her?’
Rokeby shook his head. ‘Not enough light for us to work by now.’
‘Did that helicopter ever show up?’
‘No, sir. There were other priorities.’
‘I bet.’
Joni was walking around the areas marked by the SOCOs. ‘Any prints or tracks?’
Heck groaned as a large red Japanese 4×4 pulled up. ‘Here we go,’ he said, under his breath. He watched as the hefty figure of Viscount Andrew Favon climbed down and walked towards him. He was in classic country squire attire – green shooting jacket, matching trousers and wellies. He also sported a large leather hat that reminded him of the one the missing Albanian girl had taken from Alice Liphook’s shed, except this one was black and bore the family crest – a quartered shield supported by two fish-tailed men. Heck suspected Favon wore it to cover his bald crown. The unruly moustache compensated for it.
‘That you, Rutherford?’
‘In the flesh, Lord Favon.’ Heck extended a hand. It was shaken briefly by a soft-fleshed and larger one.
‘You look a bit seedy. Heard you were injured in the line of duty. Should you be back at work?’
‘I’m all right.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ The viscount watched the SOCOs’ van drive away.
‘We’re looking for an Albanian woman, a murder suspect.’
‘I saw something about that on the news. You think she’s up here?’
Heck nodded. ‘We followed her through the plantation on the far side of the moor yesterday. It looks like she killed one of Oliver Forrest’s sheep overnight.’
‘Good God. So she’s armed.’
‘With knives. Were any of your people up here today? Ollie Forrest�
��s quad bike was found abandoned here.’
Favon frowned. His eyebrows were long and sprouting. ‘Forrest was probably drunk. How do you know he didn’t fall over and damage himself on that ridiculous contraption?’
‘Maybe the woman was here too, my lord.’ Heck had learned the hard way how to address the landowner when he’d investigated a burglary at Favon Hall a few years back. ‘We’re taking the bike in. It’s evidence.’
‘I see. The fool. I’ve told him often enough to stick to his own part of the moor.’ The aristocrat shook his head. ‘Bloody man. Put in an objection to the wind turbines.’ He smiled, showing yellow teeth. ‘Not that it got him anywhere.’
Heck tried his luck. ‘I’d like to search your grounds and check the estate vehicles.’
‘What on earth for?’
‘The Albanian woman might be in hiding down there.’
Favon laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know how steep those cliffs are.’
‘It’s for your own safety.’
‘I can look after my wife, daughter and myself, thank you.’
Heck considered telling him how handy Suzana was with a knife, but the pompous fool had refused him access so he wasn’t going to play the Good Samaritan.
‘We’ll get off your land. You’ll let me know straightaway if the Albanian woman is seen, won’t you?’ He handed over his card.
Favon stuck it in his pocket without looking at it. ‘Or I’ll ring your boss. Remarkable woman, Ruth Dickie. The next chief constable, I’m sure of it.’
Heck turned away with his head down – not in deference to the viscount, but because he was puzzled. Their conversation had been strange, even by the standards of that brusque blue-blooded creature. The problem was, he couldn’t put his finger on what was bothering him.
84
‘Where can Nick be?’ Rosie Etherington was twisting a dish towel in her hands. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock. Why isn’t his phone working?’
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