Carnal Acts

by Sam Alexander

  ‘I appreciate the support, sir. It won’t happen again.’ Joni’s eyes flashed. ‘But you know Favon’s dirty.’

  Heck ran his hand over his hair. ‘I don’t know whether it’s Friday or a scrambled egg.’

  128

  Michael Etherington had crawled to his position behind the hedge before dawn, having left the Range Rover he’d borrowed from an old army friend three miles away up an overgrown track. He was wearing camouflage fatigues and matching hat, as well as his walking boots. As the sun rose, he took in Favon Hall and the old tower behind it through the scope on his rifle. The formal garden in front of the main building was in surprisingly poor condition, considering the place would be open to the public in under a month. Maybe Andrew was making less from the estate and his investments than he used to. Plus there was the fact that there was a leech attached to him.

  He moved the rifle left and right, but there was no movement in or around the buildings. Too early for nightbirds like the Favons. He wondered if they’d been out the previous evening and whether they’d been together or on individual pursuits. Andrew’s red Toyota was parked at the side of the Hall, but Victoria’s black sports car was right in front of the main entrance. It looked like it had slewed to a halt as though the hounds of hell were after her. Maybe they were. He knew they had sold shares in some of their businesses, especially in high-tech and paper, to the Albanians. Julian Dorries had managed to identify the ultimate owners even though the Spahia clan was using front companies.

  He thought about what he’d been told the previous day. The woman was a fool –what kind of person called herself Moonbeam? – but there was more to her man. At first he’d found it hard to believe he was serious. How could a relatively minor player like him be successfully blackmailing a big figure like Andrew Favon? Because he could, was the answer – he obviously had good sources of information. He knew himself that Andrew had secrets he didn’t want in the public domain, but this – this was incredible. The man said he’d been following Victoria and had seen her and a man he couldn’t identify run Nick off the road. Michael had gone to meet them to obtain information, after he’d got a call saying ‘I know who killed your grandson’ and directing him to the mad woman’s cottage.

  He hadn’t believed it, but he was so desperate that he went. The blackmailer had disappeared as soon as the police officers approached and, quick as a flash, Moonbeam made up the story about him consulting her about Nick’s killer. It wasn’t so far from the truth, he reflected afterwards. Except he had to think on his feet too, feigning that he was gay and phoning ahead to Julian to back up the story. The police were ahead of him, breaking that alibi too. He was unlucky that the striking black policewoman had recognised him from Burwell Street with Goat Skin, despite his efforts to disguise himself. Julian had invoked the Official Secrets Act, which had bought him time – that was one of the reasons he’d involved the techie. Julian would be under pressure now. At least his wife would confirm that she’d thrown him out. He was bisexual and good luck to him.

  On the general’s insistence, everyone in the Steel Toe Caps and his group of ex-SAS men had multiple pay-as-you-go phones. Goat Skin had told him what the police said. They’d agreed it would be sensible to pay heed and leave the Albanians alone for a while. But if they stuck their noses back into Corham, they’d feel more than just toe caps. And all the time, Julian Dorries would be collecting information about the Albanian clan’s activities. The police had been after the Steel Toe Caps again about the Stars and Bars explosion. They all had solid alibis, except the idiot Goat Skin, who would keep his mouth shut whatever happened. None of them knew the explosives men, who had become ghosts after leaving the SAS.

  Eye on the scope, Michael Etherington thought about the actions he’d taken since he got confirmation that the Spahia clan had extended its operation into the north-east three months ago. Recruiting had been easy, as he’d kept in touch with reliable former soldiers in the area. Shackleton had let himself go, but he was still a useful man in a fight, as well as having communication technology skills that would be essential if they had to stop using mobiles. There were four other hard men. They had been in Kosovo at the same time as him and they knew how vicious the Spahia were. The Albanians didn’t only kill in the heat of battle, but as a point of principle. It would almost be admirable if their principles weren’t so repulsive – pimping, people trafficking, smuggling, kidnapping, drugs. Michael remembered the men, most of them old, and the women and children they’d found massacred on that April morning in the forest near the Kosovo border with Albania. The clear air was cut with the stench of corruption. The dead hadn’t just been executed, they’d been mutilated. He was sure the younger women had been raped before being killed. He swore to himself that he wouldn’t let it rest. His superiors saw his rage and withdrew him, letting him shuffle paper for five years before giving him the push. He’d spent the time planning, organising and equipping. His intention had been to strike at the Spahia in London, but their expansion northwards coincided with his own move home. The battle lines had been drawn. If that whore – the poor, desperate girl – hadn’t justifiably gone crazy in the brothel, the Steel Toe Caps would have dealt with the Albanian pimps the following weekend. He’d planned to torture the men to find out more about the clan’s activities in the area. Now he was reduced to stalking a callous man-eater to find out what she’d been up to with his grandson. Moonbeam Pax’s man hadn’t been accurate – he didn’t actually know who killed Nick as he’d reversed away when the black 4×4 stopped. Michael had paid him the five thousand he wanted anyway.

  He thought about his grandson. He’d known about the affair with Victoria, having spotted her drop him off at the end of the village one evening. He had seen Nick receive the Sevens cup from Victoria before Easter and, with hindsight, there had been a spark between them. She’d spoken to him longer than a local aristocrat normally would to a dirty adolescent rugby player. Andrew Favon was next to her and he had his usual distracted air. Victoria had come on to him once, not long after Christine had died. Deep down he’d been flattered, though he told her to behave. He should have realised she’d get back at him by bedding Nick. He hoped Nick had enjoyed the experience, even though it had brought unhappiness too –Victoria had toyed with him, leading him on and then rejecting him. Had that been another way of revenging herself on Michael? It seemed likely she’d been jealous of Nick’s feelings for Evie. But what kind of monster killed a young man for loving her daughter?

  He would wait until Andrew went off on his daily round of meetings and go down to the Hall to find Victoria. If he suspected she was lying and that she did have something to do with Nick’s death, he would break her bones one by one. The combat knife would be useful too. He’d also find out exactly why Andrew was being blackmailed. If he was the one who had killed Nick, Michael would wait for him and then execute them both. His only fear was Evie. He would have to lock her up somewhere.

  Michael heard a noise and saw a red pickup come round the corner of the hall from the old tower. He made out the figure of the Favons’ factor, a gorilla by the name of Reston. He remembered him scowling at one of Andrew’s shoots when he had to hand the whisky round. Two large animals were running next to the vehicle. He zeroed in on them. They were Dobermans, spittle lathering their flanks. Then one of them stopped and sniffed the air. The other did the same and their smooth heads turned in his direction. They started to bark at the same time and then tore across the unmown lawn, ears back, heading straight for him.

  129

  Sergeant Moody brought a large brown envelope up to Heck’s office. ‘Some kid from the Bugle tossed this on the front desk and scarpered.’

  ‘Probably worried you’d take the paper’s crap reporting of police work out on him, Len.’

  ‘Aye, I could believe that. Won’t be long till Mrs Normal’s round there bashing heads.’ The sergeant paused. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but are you all right? You look like…’

>   ‘Death after thirty seconds in the microwave?’ Heck emptied the envelope’s contents on the desk. ‘I get that a lot.’

  ‘Yes, but should you be back at work full-time?’

  Heck looked up. He’d known Len Moody for years and knew he meant well, but he was getting sick of people offering sympathy. ‘Listen, I might look like shite but I didn’t have brain surgery. Get out of here.’ He waited until the sergeant had reached the door. ‘And don’t refer to the ACC that way ever again.’

  They managed to confine their laughter to a couple of barks.

  Heck spread the photos over his desk. Gary Hext, the sports editor at the Bugle, had played in the Corham second row for years and was used to having Heck’s head in close proximity to his arse. He complained about printing out the photos, but Heck insisted. His eyes got tired staring at digital images, not that he’d be telling Len Moody.

  He’d asked only for shots of the presentation ceremony. Gary said he was lucky the photographer hadn’t wiped his card, whatever that meant. There were forty-six images, but most were of the younger age groups that had preceded the main final. Victoria Favon was caught smiling, but it was obvious she wasn’t enjoying herself. Andrew was grim-faced, not bothering to acknowledge the lads who climbed the short flight of steps. Behind them Michael Etherington seemed happy enough – one image showed him chatting animatedly to his neighbour, a middle-aged man Heck didn’t recognise, and another clapping enthusiastically. He’d often sat in those seats himself – every season until this one – and had enjoyed seeing the young uns showing off their skills. Then again, he was a rugby addict, as was Michael Etherington, while the Favons definitely weren’t.

  He looked at the images of the final presentation. Nick Etherington really had been a fine figure of a lad – tall and straight-backed despite the hard matches he’d played over the afternoon, and smiling broadly. His grandfather looked as if he would burst with pride, while Andrew Favon gave the boy a snooty look. The big difference was in Victoria. Her ladyship had been transformed, her eyes wide and her face animated. She was holding Nick’s muddy hand in several shots, while he tried to keep hold of the trophy in the other.

  Heck leaned forward and scrutinised the last photo. What was Nick Etherington doing? His right hand was either going into or coming out of the pocket of his shorts. Had Victoria slipped him something? He looked at the other images, but none was similar. Had she slipped him her number in front of her husband and hundreds of other people? The way she looked was the giveaway. This was a woman who had the hots for Nick in a big way.

  The question was, what had that to do with his murder seven weeks later? Then he had another thought. Michael Etherington was still missing. He’d known about his grandson’s affair. Perhaps he’d noticed the way Victoria behaved towards him at the Sevens. Had he found a connection between her and Nick’s murder? If so, he was capable of doing major damage.

  130

  The Popi were in a windowless room in central Newcastle, sitting on one side of a cheap metal table. The older Albanian was wearing a black polo neck and jeans and the younger was in an ex-German army jacket. The man opposite wore a denim jacket and matching trousers, his brown hair cut high at the sides, with a thick swathe lying across his forehead. There were several objects on the table.

  ‘We never use real names,’ the older Popi said. ‘I am Jackal, my colleague is Hyena and you are Gazelle.’

  ‘Gazelle? Why can’t I be a meat-eater too?’

  ‘The names are randomly generated,’ the younger Popi said. ‘The memory stick, please?’

  Gazelle, a white man in his late twenties, felt inside his jacket and placed a blue 4GB stick on the table.

  ‘Your computer is secure?’

  ‘I use an iPad with enhanced protection. As soon as the wrong password is entered, all the files are immediately turned into gobbledygook.’

  ‘Good. Give us your suggestions for the operation.’

  Gazelle laughed. ‘Operation? What is this, the SAS?’

  The Popi looked back at him, their eyes blank.

  ‘Sorry. Right, the operation. Detective Inspector Joni Pax. Hitting her at the weekend is definitely the way to go, and Sunday’s best. She’s less likely to be working than on Saturday – the woman works more overtime than your tarts. As for taking her out in front of her mother, this Moonbeam weirdo – yeah, why not? I was thinking of putting the fear of a large knife up her and getting her to call her daughter, saying she’s ill and needs looking after.’

  Hyena raised a hand. ‘You’re aware that the target and her mother have a troubled relationship. Maybe she won’t go.’

  Gazelle grinned. ‘I think I’ll be able to make it convincing.’

  ‘It’s risky,’ Jackal said, lighting a cigarette with a gold Zippo. ‘Even though they appear not to be close, the daughter may realise her mother’s under duress and call for reinforcements.’

  ‘Under duress?’ Gazelle said. ‘Where did you guys learn English?’

  There were more hollow stares.

  ‘Anyway,’ Gazelle continued, ‘you want me to cut Joni Pax up badly.’

  ‘While she is still alive,’ Hyena said.

  ‘I’m on my own, the briefing said. Joni Pax is a big woman and she knows judo. I’m not saying I can’t handle her, even with her mother present, but I’d rather she walk to her final resting place than I have to drag her there.’ He paused. ‘I’ll kill her in Moonbeam’s cottage – Jesus loves me for a moonbeam, ha ha – which is in the middle of nowhere.’

  ‘That is up to you,’ the older Popi said. ‘We would prefer the detective to be found in her apartment in Corham, but it’s a town-centre location and the risk for you is greater.’

  Gazelle smiled. ‘No problem, I’ll work it out.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Hyena said. ‘If we have to clean up, we clean up everyone. You follow?’

  Gazelle looked less sure of himself. ‘I follow.’

  ‘You’ve been paid a substantial sum of money, which will be doubled on completion of the operation,’ Jackal said. ‘Do you have any questions?’

  ‘No, no.’

  The older man smiled, but there was no trace of humour on his face. ‘Have a good time, my friend. But be careful. I think you know we can reach anyone in the British prison system, maximum security units included. Should you talk, sooner or later you will die choking on your own reproductive organ.’

  Gazelle put his hands on the table to show he wasn’t trembling. ‘What’s all this gear, then?’ he asked.

  Hyena ran through the equipment, his fingers hovering over each piece but never touching. There was a Daewoo DP51 semi-automatic pistol and two clips with nine 9mm Parabellum rounds, a KA-BAR seven-inch fighting knife and sheath, and a mobile phone with six SIM cards in small clear plastic bags, each with a number between one and six written on it in indelible ink.

  ‘The account linked to each card has five pounds credit and is strictly for single use,’ the younger Popi said. ‘You have memorised our contact number, yes?’

  Gazelle parroted it without hesitation.

  ‘Good, but we do not expect to hear from you except in extreme emergency. When you have made a call, remove the SIM, destroy it and insert the next in the series. Do not use your own phone, which should already be turned off and the battery removed.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Gazelle said, ‘I read all that in the briefing.’

  Both the Popi leaned forward.

  ‘I emphasise it,’ Hyena said, ‘because in our experience communication systems are a weak link. We would prefer you to be completely out of contact, but that has its own dangers.’

  ‘What, like you might change your minds about the operation?’

  Jackal laughed, deep in his throat. ‘There’s no chance of that. By midnight on Sunday, DI Joni Pax will be in the state you’re required to arrange, whatever happens.’

  Hyena pushed a large plastic bag towards Gazelle with the toe of his work boot. ‘Balaclava – k
eep it on at all times. Waterproof jacket, trousers and boots. Wear them when you cut her, then stand under the shower in them.’

  ‘You’ve got this all worked out,’ Gazelle said, looking at the clothing. ‘How many times have you done it?’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Oh, right. Bye.’

  The Popi waited until he had gone.

  ‘Will he do?’ the younger man asked, in their language.

  ‘Probably. It’s the other one I’m less sure about.’

  Hyena looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Shall we do it ourselves?’

  ‘No, he will be satisfactory. The policeman has not fully recovered from abdominal surgery, his father is old, his wife is small and his children are young. Leopard will kill him in front of them.’

  The younger Popi nodded. ‘He is very angry.’

  ‘Anger is good. Up to a point.’

  ‘True.’ Hyena stood up. ‘There is one thing we have not decided. Which of us will watch over Gazelle and which over Leopard?’

  Jackal got to his feet, standing on the cigarette end he had dropped. ‘Are you ready for the policeman and his family?’

  ‘Uncle, you insult me by asking.’

  The men laughed and embraced each other.

  131

  Joni drove to the Etheringtons’ village on Saturday morning. No further progress had been made on the cases on Friday and, though she was off duty, she wanted to keep an eye on things. The uniformed officers watching the roads in and out had seen no sign of General Etherington. His daughter-in-law hadn’t left home, but had been visited by two women separately. Both gave her baskets of food and neither stayed long. Joni considered going in to ask Rosie if she’d heard from Michael. In the end she didn’t. The idea of having to admit that they were no nearer to catching Nick’s killer put her off.