Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series)

by Middleton, Deborah

  CHAPTER 36

  “Where’re Archie and Pamela?” Burgess had made his way back upstairs to find that Skinner was the only one still left in the office.

  “Archie got a tip about the bike and they’ve gone over to Ewing Street to talk to some wallsitters. Apparently, one of them has a bike like that.”

  Burgess was alarmed. “Skinner, get your jacket. We need to get over there. If those are the guys involved, they’re really dangerous. I don’t want those two going over there without backup. Are you up for it?”

  “You bet,” said Skinner, delighted at the prospect of seeing some action. He was beginning to regret his move to the private sector. Police work was far more enthralling. They both hurriedly made their way downstairs, shouting their destination to a bemused De Souza as he passed them coming in.

  Archie and Pamela had taken up positions inside the shop. Pamela pretended to look at the merchandise, looping a shopping basket over her arm. Archie stood to one side of the plate glass window and quietly waited. It was beginning to get dark and he was worried their efforts would be hampered by poor visibility. Two young men had taken up their positions on the wall opposite but neither was the owner of the black bike. Why did he have to come late today, of all days? Archie was feeling frustrated. He noted a car turn in and park around the side of the building and thought he had spotted Skinner at the wheel. He flipped on his cell phone and dialled Burgess’s number.

  “Hi bro’,” came the reassuring voice of his boss and best friend. “Wassup?”

  Archie briefed him on the tip from Van’s brother and the fact that he and Pamela had two young men under surveillance at that time. Burgess remained with Skinner in the car. He did not want to alert the men outside and, even though they were unable to observe them, decided to wait to hear from Archie if action needed to be taken. They remained there for a further ten minutes when, in the twilight, they heard the throaty roar of an engine and saw the headlight of a third bike join the two wallsitters. Burgess’s phone vibrated. It was Archie.

  “It’s him,” exclaimed Archie excitedly. “I can just make out the flames and all the chrome. He’s seated on the bike talking.”

  “Best to wait until he gets off the bike and removes his helmet, Archie. That way, he can’t take off so fast.”

  “I hear you, man. Pamela is going to walk past them and check things out.”

  “Okay, we’ll stay in the car with the engine running, in case any of them decide to escape on their bikes. You had better get ready to move fast if our boy decides to do a runner!”

  “I thought you were the one training for May 24th.” Archie’s humor always rescued the moment.

  Burgess grinned. “I don’t want to do myself an injury before the big day, so I’ll leave the running to you tonight. Good luck and be careful. We’ve got your back.”

  Pamela nodded to Archie as she left the shop with a plastic shopping bag in tow and made her way across the street towards the men. Archie, Burgess and Skinner all heard the wolf whistles as she passed them. They saw her stop and say a few words. The men answered and he saw them laugh. There was a flash of light. Archie found his heart was in his mouth. Don’t do anything stupid, Pam. Pamela moved on and turned a corner. Unknown to the wallsitters, she crouched down and dialled Archie.

  “The bike definitely fits the description. I admired it and asked where he’d got it painted: the Jamaican guy on Elliot Street. I took a pic of it with my cell phone.”

  Archie swore. “That lying bastard. I interviewed him just today and he swore blind he hadn’t done any bikes like that.”

  “Must go to the same acting classes as Mrs. Flood,” Pamela retorted.

  “Okay. Stay put. I’m on my way over there.” Archie hung up, put his phone on vibrate, moved out of the shop and crossed the road. Immediately, he sensed tension in the group as they watched him approach. His pulse rate had increased and he tried to look relaxed as he neared them.

  “Hey,” he greeted. “Detective Sergeant Carmichael, Serious Crimes Unit.” He flashed his badge. Suddenly three pairs of eyes avoided contact with him. They all sat there menacingly.

  “That your bike?” He pointed to the third man’s bike.

  “Yeah, what of it?”

  “A bike following that description was seen in Point Shares shortly before a crime was…”

  Before Archie had time to finish his sentence, the man had started his engine and shot down Ewing Street with a squeal of tires. Burgess and Skinner pulled out of the parking lot at speed, siren wailing, and took off after him.

  Quick as a flash, Archie managed to subdue one of the other wallsitters. The third one took off on his bike as Pamela came running back to assist Archie. She pulled out her cuffs, got the man’s hands secured behind his back, and they both then propelled him towards their unmarked police car. Pamela wrinkled her nose at the smell of him. This was someone who preferred to bathe in cheap aftershave, rather than soap and water.

  Archie’s cell phone vibrated. Burgess was on the line as he and Skinner chased the suspected killer of the Bambases. “He turned right at St. Theresa’s Church, went through Blackwatch Pass and out on to North Shore Road. We’re running along…” He paused as Archie heard the siren going and wheels squealing in the background. “North Shore Road.” More silence. Archie waited as he heard Skinner swear. Burgess was still there. “Arch?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you get a squad car to block off the entrance to Jennings Land? I think he’s going too fast to take any right turns before then.”

  “I’ll call it in. Stay safe!”

  “Skinner’s doing great. We might even start cruising on four wheels in a moment!”

  Archie hung up. He was worried. North Shore Road was narrow and at times winding. That, together with any traffic, would make it treacherous at high speed. They had the ocean running along their left side and houses on the other. At intervals, the road was cut into the rock so they would have nothing but a rock wall on their right; all in all, a volatile situation as regards chasing a suspect. It would have been much easier on a police motorcycle. He called in the request for a roadblock at Jenning’s Land and fervently hoped they could get a squad car there in time.

  Burgess was holding on tightly to the dashboard as Skinner skilfully drove the car in the wake of the motorcyclist. Their suspect was weaving in and out of traffic, leaning far over as he turned corners at high speed. He was rapidly losing them as they had to negotiate motorists, most of whom dutifully pulled over to allow them transit. “Come on, come on,” said Burgess anxiously. “We’re coming up on Gibbets Beach and Jenning’s Road. Shit! No roadblock!” The suspect careened past the entrance to Jenning’s Land. “At least he did not turn up there.” Skinner was tightlipped. It was all he could do to keep the car on the road. Sweat was pouring from him. He could feel it under his armpits and trickling down the small of his back. His whole body coiled tight in tension as he tried to remain focused on keeping the car on the road and avoiding motorists. His one fear was to hit a pedestrian, or a tourist, wobbling along on a moped.

  “Watch out,” cried Burgess as they began to come through Flatts Village. “There’s the triangle up ahead and that’s bad enough under normal conditions. He can go three ways: North Shore, Middle Road or Harrington Sound Road. Let’s see what our boy decides.” Burgess kept their quarry in sight. “Okay, he’s going for Harrington Sound Road.”

  “Great,” muttered Skinner.

  They followed him down that road as he suddenly veered right through the twin pillars of Manor House Condominiums. Just as they followed him through, they saw his front wheel hit the first of the speed bumps and watched in horror as he cartwheeled over the handlebars of his bike and landed on the grass verge. Skinner skidded to a halt and ran towards the revving motorcycle that now lay on its side, wheels spinning, gushing gasoline on to the tarmac, while Burgess made his way over to the young man who was moaning among the freesias. A siren could be heard in the distance
.

  “Skinner, go to the entrance and flag down the car. Get them to radio for an ambulance.”

  Skinner raced down the hill towards the entrance to head off the police car. Burgess approached the suspect with trepidation, his mind already recoiling at what he might see.

  The young man was lying on his back. He was conscious and moaning. Burgess could see no head injuries – a miracle that he had fallen on the grass verge and not on the tarmac. Burgess knew that, without a helmet, his skull would have cracked like an egg shell on the tarmac. “The ambulance is on its way. You are one lucky dude to have fallen on the grass. I think it would have been curtains for you if you’d fallen on the tarmac.”

  “My shoulder… my shoulder,” was all the young man could say.

  “Don’t move.”

  Burgess went over to the car and pulled a blanket and flashlight out of the trunk. Even though the temperature had yet to drop significantly, he wanted to keep the suspect warm until the ambulance arrived. He used the flashlight to have a better look at his injuries. The young man began swearing at him. “I guess you’re okay, then, if you can talk like that.” Burgess was relieved. The other police officers had joined them and they could hear the ambulance’s siren coming their way. “It won’t be long now,” he commented to no one in particular. He instructed one of the officers to escort the suspect in the ambulance to the hospital and to watch over him until the ambulance arrived. “I’ll get someone to remain on guard duty tonight in the hospital. In the meantime, don’t let him out of your sight. Also, we’ll need to get a tow truck to take away the bike. It may be evidence in the Bambase killings.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of that and I’ll stay with him all night if necessary,” said the eager young constable.

  “Good job. Thanks. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Vincent Todd, sir.”

  “Thank you, Constable Todd.”

  Burgess made his way over to Skinner. “Great driving, Skinner. Are you sure you don’t want to come back and join us? You don’t get to speed like that when you work for the private sector.”

  “I’m thinking about it, sir, believe me. That’s the most fun I’ve had on four wheels ever.”

  “What do you mean, four wheels? You were on two most of the time.”

  “Well, there were a lot of corners!”

  “Come on, let’s tell Archie and Pamela we’ve got him and go have a drink somewhere. We deserve it. Then, tomorrow, we’ll have some interviewing to do.” Burgess dialled Archie and invited him and Pamela over to Rusticos for a beer. “We’re at Manor House and just need to go back to Flatts. Have you finished processing your prize?”

  “Yeah, he’s in custody and you’re gonna love some of the stuff he’s been telling us.” Burgess could tell just from Archie’s voice that he was grinning from ear to ear.

  CHAPTER 37

  At police headquarters in Moscow, Khitarov’s brain was on fire. His eyes were riveted to the notation under the girl’s photo as the words ‘Vory v Zakone’ danced lewdly on the screen in front of him. This feared mafia-like group, forged in the prison camps of Stalin and whose name literally meant ‘Thieves in Law’, enjoyed an almost iconic status in Russia’s criminal lore. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, the Vory swiftly exploited the chaos, assuming a leading role in the Russian criminal hierarchy and running a burgeoning criminal network. Russians felt an affinity with them as they symbolized opposition to a rigid government with often unpopular ideological and legal practices. They soon found themselves the unlikely subject of songs, books and even TV shows romanticising their exploits. Like any Russian, Khitarov knew all about them: their peculiar code of ethics, known as ‘Vorovskoy Zakon’ - the ‘Thieves’ Code’ - their unique tattoos and special language. It was common knowledge they were involved in everything from petty theft to arms smuggling, narcotics trafficking and billion dollar money laundering. Their code forbade them to work - they were only to steal - and were behind many of the transactions taking place on the black market.

  Adding to their stature was the fact that the Vory were sometimes called upon to act as unofficial arbiter of conflicts between other warring criminal factions. Although the group’s power had diminished somewhat in the 21st century, Khitarov had heard it had now spread beyond Russia to cities such as Madrid, Berlin and others in the United States. In fact, members today, even those still active inside Russia, were often no longer ethnic Russians but from other post-Soviet countries.

  The paragraph underneath the photograph from Missing Persons, that had caused his heart to jolt, indicated that child’s mother, Alisa Sidorova, a well-known Russian soap opera star and alleged girlfriend of infamous Anatoli Nikitin, a high-ranking leader of the Vory v Zakone, had reported the girl as a runaway. While the caste’s strict code forbade marriage or family, there was no rule of celibacy and lovers were allowed and, although the young girl technically was not the Vor’s daughter but that of his girlfriend, Khitarov suspected she would have asked him to help her find her child. To the Vory, sex crimes, especially those against minors, were deemed particularly heinous and drew severe penalties – including death or mutilation - to anyone breaching them. The detective reflected that he would hate to be in Alexeev’s shoes now, if Nikitin had found out about his involvement in the girl’s sexual exploitation and murder. He shuddered to think what they would do. Perhaps it would be better not to find the film director. He felt almost sorry for him now. More importantly, if Nikitin wanted Alexeev punished, he hoped his police investigation would not place him in the crossfire. He knew how expendable they would deem a lowly police officer. The burly detective began to bite his nails, something he had not done since he was a teenager. Suddenly, he felt the urge to share this information with someone of higher rank - to dilute the responsibility by involving others. The case had taken on a whole new dimension and he was not sure he could handle it alone. Picking up the phone on his desk, he shakily dialled the lieutenant colonel’s extension

  “Wow,” exclaimed Pamela. “I’ve just received an e-mail from Khitarov in Moscow. His English is a little hard to follow but the gist of it reads that he believes our male victim to be one Boris Vasiliev, a former butler of Alexeev. He’s also identified the girl as Eva Sidorova and, get this, she is in some way linked to a mafia group called the Vory v Zakone.” She stumbled over the pronunciation of the Russian words. “I’m going to look them up on the internet.”

  “I know something about them,” De Souza called to her from his desk. “Have you seen the film ‘Eastern Promises’?”

  “Can’t say that I have.”

  “Well, it’s about the Russian Mafia operating in London and I seem to remember the main bad guy was supposed to be a Vor. He was covered in tattoos. Apparently, you can tell the life history of a Vor from the tattoos on his body. I remember they looked very religious, with a lot of things like church spires and crosses. Oh, I remember now. If you’re a high-ranking Vor, you’ll have a cross tattooed on your chest. The number of church spires you have represents the number of years you’ve spent in prison or the number of times you’ve been incarcerated. Oh, and this guy had stars tattooed on his knees to signify he was a captain and would kneel to no one; pretty heady stuff… and they have this weird code of conduct. Something like they have to renounce marriage, their parents, brothers and sisters and so forth; they can’t ever hold down a job… It’s all quite different from the Italian Cosa Nostra.”

  Pamela turned and faced De Souza. “That fits in with some of the things the guy we took into custody last night was saying.” Pamela was beside herself with excitement. “He said that a man with a strange accent asked them to go to Alexeev’s house and that he had a lot of tattoos on his arms, hands and fingers. Do you think the Russian Mafia could be involved in our Point Shares murders?”

  “Pamela, last year Buddy was attacked by a Croatian professional hitman. Anything’s possible.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Pamela looked th
oughtful. De Souza’s voice startled her from her reverie.

  “Where’s the boss now, anyway? I need to tell him about this.”

  “He’s checking on ‘bikerman’ at King Edward’s and probably sneaking a coffee with the lovely pathologist, if I know our boss.” Her chuckle was infectious and De Souza joined in. She liked De Souza. He was methodical and analytical. She particularly liked to watch him in action in the interview room, when this mild-mannered man would take on some really hard types bristling with street attitude. He always appeared unfazed and very often got the upper hand, simply by playing his cards as regards evidence. He knew when to cajole, when to stay quiet and when to go for the throat. It was a terrific performance and, anybody who knew this church-going, family man who adored his wife and her Portuguese cooking, would be astounded at the metamorphosis into ruthless interrogator. “Speaking of interviews, how did it go last evening with the other guy?”

  “He’s scared and now that he’s got a lawyer, he’s stopped talking. We’ll have to wait for the other one’s story and see if we can use that as leverage to get him talking again. In any event, tomorrow’s May 24th, so nothing much is going to get done until after the holiday. Are you doing anything special for Bermuda Day?”

  Pamela blushed. “Well, Skinner invited me out on his boat. We’re going to sail over to Paradise Lakes and have a picnic there. I may even have my first dip of the year.”

  “Well, if you’re going to get your toes wet, Bermuda Day is the day for it.” De Souza was referring to the fact that most Bermudians did not swim until May 24th. “I heard this morning they’re forecasting lots of sunshine, light winds and, most importantly for you, small waves.”