Carnal Acts

by Sam Alexander

  ‘It’s round the back if you want to take a look,’ Victoria said.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pete said, getting up. ‘May we inspect all your vehicles, my lord?’

  Favon didn’t look overjoyed, but he nodded.

  After Rokeby had left, Joni continued.

  ‘How many times did you and Nick have sex?’

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Andrew Favon protested.

  ‘Yes,’ Heck said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Victoria said. ‘Six, at least.’ She smiled sadly. ‘He was such a sweet young man. I feel terrible about what happened to him.’

  ‘Have you any idea who smashed his face in?’ Joni asked, with deliberate brutality.

  ‘Now, look…’

  Lady Favon raised a hand and her husband was instantly silenced.

  ‘I can’t believe anyone could do that,’ she said.

  ‘What other vehicles did you use?’ Joni continued. So far the woman’s responses had been convincing.

  ‘Once I took the estate pickup, a…’

  ‘Red Hilux Invincible, manufactured in 2007, registration number NL69 SMG.’

  Joni read from her notebook.

  ‘Yes,’ Victoria said. ‘Our factor Dan Reston usually has the use of it, but one of the places we met is particularly rough and I didn’t want to make a mess of the Vitara.’

  ‘Did you use the red Land Cruiser at all?’ Heck asked, watching her husband.

  ‘No, that’s Andrew’s. He keeps it very much for himself.’

  ‘And you would have sex in the vehicles?’ Joni asked.

  ‘Actually, no. I’m rather a fan of al fresco.’

  ‘Wasn’t that uncomfortable?’

  ‘I’ve become a tough country lass,’ Victoria said, looking at her husband. ‘Haven’t I, darling?’

  He laughed hollowly. ‘I should say so.’

  Lady Favon smiled, showing straight white teeth. ‘You have been doing your homework, DI … Pax, was it? Unusual name.’

  Joni kept her cool and changed the subject. ‘Major General Michael Etherington. What’s the nature of your relationship with him?’

  Lady Favon laughed and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘You mean, did he and I have sex, as you put it? No, he was very attached to his wife. And for years he was away being a hero.’

  ‘He was a desk jockey in the MoD at the end of his time in the army,’ Andrew Favon said dismissively.

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Wednesday. He brought Nick here.’

  ‘Man’s turned into a frightful bore since he retired. Keeps talking about his service in those God-awful Balkan places. He has a real bug in his bonnet about them.’

  ‘Bee,’ said Lady Favon.

  He stared at her uncomprehendingly.

  Joni caught the woman’s gaze again. ‘Do you think the general knew that you’d chanced your hand with Nick?’

  ‘Chanced my hand?’ Victoria Favon’s laughter was a high trill. ‘You really must read a lot of romantic fiction. I fancied him, that’s all. It was nothing to do with Michael. The boy was over age.’

  ‘Do you have dogs?’ Heck asked.

  ‘What?’ Andrew Favon said, taken aback by the handbrake turn in the questioning. ‘No. I get asthma if animals are in the house.’

  ‘There must be some on the estate.’

  ‘Of course, man. The shepherds have their collies, no doubt some of the tenants have pets. What are you getting at?’

  A decision had been taken not to publicise the marks on what remained of Gary Frizzell’s throat.

  ‘No guard dogs?’ Heck looked around the room. ‘You must have plenty of valuable things and burglaries of big houses are on the rise.’

  ‘This is a hall,’ Favon said stiffly. ‘If you look outside, you’ll see that there are burglar alarms on the walls. They have been quite satisfactory.’

  ‘What about your man Reston?’ Heck asked.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Does he have dogs?’

  Lord Favon hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. He’s more of a machine type.’

  Joni noticed the delay before he answered. The questioning moved on to Ollie Forrest. Neither of the Favons had seen him recently and both twisted their lips at the mention of his name.

  ‘I’d like to interview your daughter, Evelyn,’ Joni said.

  ‘Out of the question,’ Andrew Favon said.

  ‘I really must agree with my husband,’ Victoria said. ‘Tell Ruth Dickie that Evie’s off limits, at least for the time being. She’d grown very friendly with Nick recently. She’s still terribly upset.’

  Heck and Joni got to their feet. Lady Favon said her farewells at the main entrance, while her husband took them to the garages. There they watched as the SOCOs ran tests. The prints from the moor did not match any of the vehicles’ tyres.

  ‘We need to talk to Daniel Reston,’ Heck said to Favon.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to wait. He’s on leave.’

  ‘Since when.’

  ‘The day before yesterday. He took his wife, Cheryl, to visit her family on the train. I ran them to Newcastle Central. I’m afraid I don’t know where they were going exactly. Somewhere in the south-west.’

  ‘I presume Mr Reston lives on the estate,’ Heck said. ‘We need to check his house.’

  ‘Now, look here, Rutherford, I’ve played the white man.’ If Andrew Favon cared about using that expression in Joni’s presence, he didn’t show it. ‘But this is too much. I’m not letting you go through a man’s home and mess up his things when he isn’t there, especially without a warrant. What have you got against him anyway?’

  Heck ignored that. ‘Give me his mobile number, please.’

  The viscount did so, with ill grace. It squared with the one found on the ganger’s phone.

  ‘One more thing,’ Heck said. ‘Do you know a Wayne Garston?’

  Andrew Favon looked blank. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he?’

  Heck smiled and didn’t answer. Soon afterwards they left the estate. Pete Rokeby stayed behind with the SOCOs. It wasn’t long before the ACC was on the phone. Heck turned on speaker mode.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Lord Favon,’ Ruth Dickie said. ‘He wasn’t happy.’

  ‘I took very accurate notes,’ Joni said.

  ‘I’m glad you did, DI Pax. Did you find out anything useful?’

  Joni filled her in.

  ‘I hope you think it was worth it,’ the ACC said. ‘If I get the chief constable on my back, you’ll be the first to hear.’

  ‘I don’t know why he would complain,’ Joni said.

  ‘Favon mentioned intrusive questioning.’

  ‘His wife was quite willing to answer everything I threw at her.’

  ‘I don’t think we went far enough,’ added Heck. ‘I wish I’d asked the noble lord about his interest in nipple clamps.’

  There was a loud sigh. ‘I suppose I should count myself lucky then.’

  Joni and Heck both laughed after she broke the connection.

  ‘Good old Mrs Normal,’ Heck said. ‘Mention nipples and she has a hot flush.’

  Joni shook her head. ‘Have you heard of political correctness, sir?’

  ‘Isn’t that what the government’s full of?’

  She let that go. ‘What did you make of them?’

  ‘Victoria Favon is as cool as a … you know what I mean. I don’t think she’s a killer, though.’

  ‘No, I agree. Her man’s more in that mould.’

  ‘No, he’s all bark – even though he isn’t a dog fan – and as toothless as an old wolf.’

  ‘He drew the line about giving us access to Reston’s house.’

  ‘We haven’t got enough for a warrant. Hang on, I’ll call the man himself.’ Heck did so. There was no reply, the call transferring to voicemail without a personalised message.

  ‘What now?’ Joni asked.

  ‘Back to Corham. Maybe Michael Etherington will have turned up.’

&
nbsp; ‘Or maybe he’ll have blown something else up.’

  Heck shook his head. ‘Jumping to conclusions is a bad idea.’

  ‘The one about Victoria Favon and Nick Etherington worked out all right.’

  ‘Aye, but where has it got us?’

  Joni needed to think about that.

  120

  Skender Spahia stood at the armoured windows at the rear of the house in Holland Park. Like his neighbours, he’d installed wire and broken glass on the top of the two-metre walls round the garden, as well as electronic alarms and CCTV. Unlike his neighbours, he also used armed clan members to watch the screens and check the equipment daily. He’d bought the house from a Greek shipowner who tried one insurance scam too many and made a rapid exit from the UK. The name Spahia appeared in none of the deeds or transaction records. He was the clan’s leader in the country and he answered only to his father, who had a thousand-acre estate in upstate New York. The old man had been unwell, a cancer gnawing at his belly, but he was still as sharp as an assassin’s blade. Fortunately he trusted Skender, the eldest of his four sons and heir apparent to the criminal empire. Unlike his brothers in Italy, Germany and France and his cousins in less profitable countries, Skender had both an analytical mind and two degrees in business management. He had invested in hedge funds and in both traditional and new technology companies. That was the future.

  Except the old ways of doing things couldn’t be ignored. The money that fuelled the legitimate business interests came from the clan’s well-established activities – drugs, people trafficking, whoring, pornography, smuggling, kidnapping, luxury car theft and so on. The operation he headed in Britain was a pyramid. He smiled at the thought. Millions of his countrymen had lost their life savings in a pyramid scheme partly run by the clan a decade ago. That had been his first taste of the profits that could be made by appealing to people’s basest instincts – greed and lust. Fear was the other member of the triad. Between him at the top and the street-level operations that brought in the cash there were several layers of management, all of them connected to the clan and all with particular areas of expertise. As a business model it couldn’t be improved upon. Computers made running the varied operations easy, while the exercise of extreme violence by clan members made the structure impenetrable. No Spahia clan member had ever given information to the authorities or been turned. Everyone knew what would happen to them and their families if they did.

  All of which made the reports Skender had been receiving from Northumberland disturbing. One clan member dead and three in police custody largely because of the actions of a seventeen-year-old prostitute, who was still missing. In practical terms, there was nothing to worry about. The three members would never talk and the lawyer, Richard Lennox, was paid well to look after them. The whore would know nothing of the clan’s organisation – it was standard operating procedure to keep the women separate and fully disciplined. This one was obviously a rogue. He’d considered having her family back in the homeland brought over as bait, but that had its own risks. They would be killed later, when the bitch had been caught and could watch their long-drawn-out deaths on a satellite feed before her own. No, the issue was that of example. The clan code was clear. Any breach of security had to be punished in a way that terrified both insiders and outsiders.

  And now a clan nightclub in Newcastle had been blown up. Losing face in such a public way was far beyond acceptable. Lennox had no idea who was responsible, despite the policemen he paid. The Bomb Squad had so far kept their conclusions to themselves, apart from saying that the explosive device was sophisticated.

  Spahia turned as his secretary opened the door and ushered in two members of the Popi. They were not his family – what family would want such men in their midst? – but they had pledged their allegiance to the clan by killing one of their own relatives. They did this because they would be paid premium rates and to show that nothing was more important than their master’s wishes. The original Popi had been a band of brigands who harassed the Ottoman occupier for centuries, slaughtering his troops, stealing his possessions and dying in droves when the columns of Janissaries eventually caught up with them. Contemporary Popi received one of the curved daggers their predecessors had used to cut the throats of the enemy when they made their first professional kill.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Spahia spoke in English because he wanted to see how well the assassins spoke the language. He had used them before – and been impressed – but their handling had been delegated to his senior deputy. This time he wanted a more hands-on role.

  ‘My leader,’ they answered, lowering their heads.

  ‘You’ve been examining the situation in Cor-ham.’

  ‘Yes, my leader.’

  ‘How do you recommend we proceed?’

  The elder of the men stepped forward. He was of average height, but even the well-cut suit failed to disguise his muscular frame. His feet were large and sheathed in black cowboy boots.

  ‘The men who’ve been caught do not represent any risk. The whore is also of little importance. The clan network will track her down and she can be dealt with at your pleasure.’

  Skender Spahia raised a hand, then adjusted his silk tie. The white polka dots provided a pleasing contrast to the dark blue pinstriped suit that had cost him over three thousand pounds. ‘Do I understand that you discount the woman?’ he asked, the high forehead furrowed beneath his combed-back, raven hair.

  The older Popi nodded. ‘Yes, my chief. We believe the priority is for a strong message to be sent to the local gangs who will attempt to profit from the enforced closures of the brothel in Corham and the nightclub.’

  ‘Both those matters can be handled by clan members in Newcastle.’

  ‘We would be happy to help.’

  Spahia smiled. ‘No doubt.’

  ‘But, excuse me, chief. We also feel an important message should be sent by striking at the police detectives who are hunting the woman. This will have the added benefit of bringing into line the businessmen, landowners and local politicians with whom the clan is dealing.’

  This time Spahia didn’t smile, although he found the killer’s advanced grammar almost surreal. Whoever they were paying to teach them English was in line for a bonus. He didn’t smile because he took the proposal seriously, even though killing police officers was never a course of action to be taken lightly. And because he’d had an angry call from one of the people he was in business with in the north.

  ‘I approve the idea in principle,’ he said, sitting down at the wide mahogany desk. He knew better than to invite the Popi to take seats – the master-servant relationship did not include comfort for the latter. ‘However, if there is any danger of the clan being implicated, I will not sanction the murder of police officers, particularly senior ones, by Albanians – and that includes you.’

  The younger Popi stepped forward. His face was unusually smooth and his eyebrows thin and arched. ‘We anticipated this, my leader. We have carried out background checks into two officers. It is possible to have them executed by persons unconnected to the clan.’ He took out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Spahia.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. After reading it, he put the document in the top drawer of his desk and locked it. ‘You have located these individuals?’

  ‘Yes, chief,’ the elder Popi said. ‘Both were very enthusiastic, even before we discussed payment. We will meet them when we go north before finalising the agreement.’

  ‘And you are convinced that using them will send the message with sufficient force?’

  ‘We will instruct them. Although the woman is on her own, she has a mother who lives in the area. As to the man, he has a wife and children, and his father lives in the same house. They will provide audiences.’

  ‘And you are sure your operatives will manage to kill them in front of their families and get away unrecognised?’

  ‘If they don’t, we will step in.’

  Skender Spahia knew what that meant �
�� no witnesses left alive. He sat back in his leather chair and spun it towards the garden. His daughter Roza was playing in the garden with a small dog that he hated. She was two and a half, her dark hair in a pink bow, her chubby legs in traditional tight trousers. He waved at her and received a wide smile.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, turning back to the Popi. ‘I want this affair concluded by Sunday at the latest.’

  ‘Yes, my leader,’ the men said, bowing their heads again and making for the door.

  Spahia went over to the humidor and selected a Havana, chopping the end off with a cutter. As he held his gold lighter under the cigar, he felt his heart rate return to something akin to normal. He couldn’t help it. He was a child of the rock fathers, the snow-glorious peaks of his homeland. Killing remained in his blood, no matter how many multi-million dollar deals he made. Even talking about it was exhilarating.

  121

  When Heck left the MCU, Joni was still at her desk. Morrie Simmons and Nathan Gray had hauled Goat Skin Shackleton in and were grilling him about his whereabouts and those of his fellow Steel Toe Caps before the bomb went off at the Stars and Bars. He insisted he’d been at home – with not even his bingo-playing wife to give him an alibi – and that he hadn’t seen Michael Etherington. Neither had anyone else. Either the general had gone to ground or he was in the ground. Heck shook his head. He liked Etherington and he was holding on to an ever-shrinking hope that he wasn’t mixed up in the bombing. But why wasn’t he answering his phone? Maybe he’d gone fishing somewhere remote…

  On the drive home Heck thought about Joni. She’d handled herself well with the Favons, though she’d trodden close to the line. She was predisposed against the aristocrats, no doubt because of her very different upbringing. Which reminded him: Michael Etherington and Joni’s mother – he found it very hard to believe the general wanted a spell from her. Then again, he could hardly believe that the dead boy’s grandfather was gay.

  Passing trees in numerous shades of green, Heck thought about Joni again. There was something different about her, something beyond her colour and Met service. She was amazingly intuitive. It was as if she could see connections the rest of them couldn’t. Or was it just that she had more objectivity? Perhaps he and his colleagues had been taken in by the Favons’ status. No, he didn’t think that was the case. Then there was the missing Albanian woman. Joni seemed to be on a mission to find and save her from the brutes who had abused her. That was understandable given their shared gender, but was it affecting her judgement? He had the feeling that Joni’s interest in the Favons was dictated by the fact that Suzana – he’d remembered her name! – had last been seen on the moor that bordered the family’s estate.