Night Angels

by Danuta Reah

  Detective Inspector Jordan didn’t contact them.

  Hull, Monday morning

  Lynne had spent Sunday night trying to control her anger: anger with Farnham – pointless – and anger at herself for losing control of an important aspect of her work. She had been so sure that Farnham would be willing to play it her way – he had treated her as the expert in her field, had discussed his moves as they affected her, had treated her with professional respect. Or so she had thought. But in fact he had held out on her all the way. After she had invited him into her work and into her bed, he’d shafted her. Nice one, Lynne.

  It should have been her day off, but she couldn’t relax. Days off were her days for shopping, for reading, for catching up with friends, for walks along the low mud cliffs of the east coast. But she couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do. She felt too restless, and her mind was turning the problems over and over in her mind: Nasim Rafiq, Katya, Anna Krleza. She switched her computer on in the end, and began another search for the lost website – a futile task, but one that gave her the illusion of action. But the faces of the women looking back at her became one face, Gemma Wishart’s ruined face; the bodies became the slim figure of Katya leaving the hospital, a small, anonymous figure walking into the night and to her death. She saw Nasim’s dark eyes look into hers with accusation and betrayal, and behind Nasim, a small boy watched her, the unknown Javid.

  She saw Roy Farnham’s face as he listened to her, quiet, absorbed, nodding as he took in what she was saying, absorbing, absorbing and giving nothing back. Farnham, you bastard, you didn’t have to do it like that! Another site appeared on the screen, another black page with red lettering, another naked body and the warning ‘Adult Site’. She couldn’t face looking at any more. She had to do something. She pressed her fists against her eyes and tried to force her mind out of its restless loop and into a more constructive mould.

  There was no point in being angry. Farnham had done the right thing. There was a witness who was missing, there was someone who might know where that witness was, who might have been hiding her, there was evidence of a crime. She was the one who was at fault. She should have pressured Nasim into revealing what she knew as soon as her suspicions were aroused. Farnham had warned her: ‘You’re not a social worker.’ She’d resented that as patronizing. He’d been right, though. She’d wanted Nasim as an informer, and she’d been sympathetic towards the woman’s situation. So she’d left her like a tethered lamb as Farnham closed in.

  But Nasim was still her witness to Katya’s last movements, Nasim and Matthew Pearse. Matthew Pearse. He had gone looking for Anna Krleza over twenty-four hours ago and he still wasn’t back. He was playing a game with some very dangerous people, and so was Krleza. They might have gone to ground. They might have somewhere they could hide.

  And Nasim would co-operate with her now. She could talk to her as part of her ongoing investigation, suggest to her that the concealment of Anna Krleza was done out of ignorance or fear. That she, Lynne, would support that interpretation if there was anything else that Nasim could tell her. If Nasim could produce Pearse and Krleza, Farnham might be prepared to treat her just as a witness, not someone who had been obstructing his case.

  OK, she needed to move quickly. Farnham was still holding Rafiq, presumably on charges relating to her concealment of an illegal immigrant. Lynne was pretty sure that Nasim didn’t know where Matthew Pearse might be, but she might have picked up some pointers as she worked with the man. Lynne needed to talk to her.

  19

  Sheffield, Monday morning

  It was just after eight when Roz woke up. Luke was still asleep beside her. Despite the chaos of the last two days, she felt relaxed and rested. The radio was playing quietly. She stretched and he began to stir, reaching for her and pulling her on top of him as though sleep had been the briefest interlude in their encounter of the night before.

  Later, she yawned over the kettle as she looked out of the kitchen window. Low pressure had settled over the city and the sky had returned to leaden dullness. She made coffee and put toast under the grill, looking out at the grey blanket that seemed to be covering the sky. The clouds would be low over the tops. She wasn’t looking forward to the drive. Luke came into the room and stood behind her, putting his arms round her waist as he looked out at the cheerless day. ‘Who wants to go out in that?’ he said. He whispered into her hair. ‘We could go back to bed.’ They stood there together for a moment, then he said, ‘I’ll take the car to that garage down the road. Get you a new wheel.’

  ‘The tyre’s down,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll pump up enough to get it there,’ he said easily. ‘What time do you need to be off?’

  She thought. The meeting started at twelve. It was a fairly informal affair, so it wouldn’t be a serious problem if she was a bit late. ‘About half ten,’ she said. ‘I’ve got some stuff to put together. I meant to read through it last night.’

  ‘OK.’ He was pouring coffee. ‘I’d better get started.’

  ‘Aren’t you having anything to eat?’ she said.

  ‘At this time? You’re joking, Bishop.’ He picked up her car keys and headed for the door. ‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ he said.

  It took her longer than she’d planned to get her stuff together and get herself ready for the meeting, but even so, she was starting to feel anxious about her deadlines by the time he returned. ‘Queues,’ he said succinctly, giving her an approving once-over. ‘You’ll turn into Grey yet,’ he said, in reference to her suit which, OK, she had bought because she admired Joanna’s tailored elegance. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘give me a ring when you’re coming back, OK? Phone me from Glossop, give me an ETA.’

  He was watching her with apparent insouciance, but she could see the underlying tension. ‘OK,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve got some catching up to do with people – it won’t be before seven. Could be later.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘And come straight across to mine,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother with coming back here.’ His concern wasn’t rational, but she could understand it. She was beginning to feel it herself.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Luke,’ she said.

  He smiled. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know.’

  He’d got the wheel replaced, fixed her up with a new spare and filled the tank. She was going over on the Woodhead Pass, the straighter, faster road across the Pennines that was more easily accessible from the Pits-moor side of the city, but if she was coming back to Luke’s then she’d make the return journey on the Snake, come in on his side of Sheffield. He walked to the car with her. ‘Phone me,’ he said again. ‘When you’re on your way back.’

  ‘I’ll phone,’ she said. ‘I’ll phone.’ He watched her as she drove off, and she thought about how good it felt to have someone to come home to.

  Hull, Monday morning

  Farnham was waiting for Lynne when she arrived in her office. ‘I’ve arranged for Holbrook to be picked up,’ he said. ‘I don’t want him doing a bolt. Do you want to be in on the interview?’

  Lynne had heard from Immigration who had sent through information about Holbrook’s student exchange business. It was apparently above board. Immigration were aware of it, the few students he brought across were accounted for, and there had never been any problems associated with the enterprise. ‘Have you got enough on him?’

  Farnham looked into the distance, calculating. ‘I’d be happier with a bit more. Let’s have him in and put him through it.’

  ‘I need to talk to Roz Bishop,’ Lynne said. ‘Gemma Wishart’s colleague,’ she added, in response to Farn-ham’s querying glance. ‘She left a message on the answering machine. She must have left it on Sunday. It was a bit garbled, but the gist is, she and Hagan have found out what the mystery words on the tape were.’

  ‘Any use?’ Farnham was alert.

  Lynne shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Like Green-hough said, it’s one of the other languages you find in Russia. It might help us get an identificat
ion. I don’t know. There’s something…Anyway, Bishop isn’t there today. She’s in Manchester. And there was no reply from Hagan.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let me know.’

  ‘And I want to talk to Nasim Rafiq,’ she said, holding his gaze.

  He looked away as he thought. ‘OK. But later. Immigration are coming in this morning.’ He headed back for the incident room, muttering, ‘Bishops, angels, give me strength,’ as he went.

  Lynne had to be satisfied with that. At least the pressure of an ongoing investigation would keep Nasim there for the moment. Immigration wouldn’t be able to take her to one of their detention centres. There was something she needed to do, anyway. When she had listened to Roz Bishop’s message, something had started nagging in her mind, something she’d seen but not noticed that was now trying to catch her attention. She went through the morning’s post again, but there was nothing there that seemed fit the sense of something missed that she was getting.

  She needed an expert to talk her through this. Roz Bishop wasn’t available, but there was someone else who might be. She had better luck with Bill Green-hough. He was immediately interested. ‘Ket? That explains why I couldn’t identify it. Ket! And Gemma Wishart spotted it? I’m impressed.’ Lynne could hear the sound of paper being moved around, pages being turned. ‘Right. Got it. It’s also called Yenisei-Ostyak. That name isn’t much used now.’ Yenisei-Ostyak. YO. The notes on the transcript were coming clear. But why had Gemma Wishart been so excited? Was it just the linguistic rarity? She’d written check! on the notes, and had then gone to Holbrook’s archive. You remember the tape I…Was she checking the fragments of this language against another speaker…? Lynne remembered the research notebooks.

  ‘Did you get the stuff I sent you from Gemma’s research?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I’m just looking. Right. It’s there. In Dudinka, she’s got a record of…let me see…’ He read it out. ‘“Female, eighteen, Russian, Ket, English (some).” She had a bilingual Russian–Ket eighteen-year-old with some English.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’ Lynne said.

  ‘Most Ket speakers will be bilingual. But the point is, there are so few of them left – between five hundred and a thousand at the most. It’s a real oddity, Ket. A language isolate – it isn’t related to any other languages – except, possibly, one of the Native American languages. A Ket speaker. And to find one who speaks English as well…Just about unique, I would have thought.’

  Just about unique. But Katya apparently spoke Russian, Ket and had some English. Enough to make herself understood. The pathologist had estimated Katya’s age at late teens, early twenties. Gemma Wishart said that Katya came from north-eastern Siberia. The research notebook referred to Gemma’s work in Dudinka, the port near the mouth of the Yenisei River where it flowed into the Kara Sea. ‘Thank you, Dr Greenhough,’ Lynne said. ‘I’ll get back to you if I need anything else.’

  She hung up on his, ‘I’d really like…’ and went back to the incident room where Gemma Wishart’s research notebooks were kept. She went through them until she found the one relating to Dudinka. Then she went through the pages, checking. There! In July of 1999, Gemma Wishart had interviewed Oksana Ilbekov, an eighteen-year-old student at Novosibirsk Institute of Pedagogy. She was studying linguistics. Gemma’s notes were careful and detailed. Oksana had an interesting background. Her mother was a Ket from the Yenisei River basin in central Siberia. Her father was a fisherman, a Russian, from Dudinka. Her mother had died when she was a child. When she was in her early teens, her father had been killed in an accident at sea, and she had gone to live with her mother’s family. She was learning English as part of her course, and had plans to spend some time in Britain to improve her skills in the language.

  Suppose…Lynne knew how dangerous supposition could be, but her source of information dried up here, and she was due to bring Holbrook in this afternoon. She had to have enough to arrest him or to eliminate him by the time her interview with him was finished. Gemma Wishart had known Marcus Holbrook. Hol-brook brought students into the country. Suppose she had passed on Oksana’s details to him…A friend’s recommendation, someone she could trust.

  And then, Katya’s body had been found in the Humber Estuary, a young woman who had escaped from prostitution, who had wanted to talk to the police, who had been panicked and incoherent, who had not known who she could and who she could not trust. And the tape of her voice had gone to the expert at the Forensic Linguistics laboratory that the Hull Police customarily used, and on to the desk of the one person who might – just – recognize the voice. And Gemma had. Or at least she had recognized phrases from the language she had encountered when she met Oksana. And she had wanted to check what must have seemed to be an impossibility against her original tape. Which, according to Roz Bishop, had been stolen. No wonder Marcus Holbrook had not wanted her to have access to his archive. He couldn’t bear to destroy the tape. He had to include it. He must have assumed that the recording would never be heard by anyone who could make the link. And then Gemma had died. But now Lynne had a possible name for Katya.

  Hull, Monday afternoon

  Nasim Rafiq looked tired and stressed. She listened to what Lynne had to say. ‘I do not know,’ she said wearily.

  Lynne suppressed her impatience. ‘I’m trying to help you, Nasim,’ she said. Couldn’t Rafiq understand that? ‘If you’d told me what you told DCI Farnham, I could have done something. I still can. But I need your co-operation.’

  Rafiq looked down at her hands, then back at Lynne. ‘You promise…’ she said. You promised me!

  ‘You didn’t give me anything I could use,’ Lynne said.

  She saw the desperation in the other woman’s eyes. ‘You promise!’ she said again.

  ‘I said I could help you if you helped me. You didn’t.’ There was no point in wrapping it up. She watched Rafiq take in this confirmation of her fears. ‘I can’t promise anything now,’ she said. ‘I will try to help you, but you’ve got to give me something I can work with.’

  Rafiq was silent for a long time. Lynne could see her struggling with her doubts. She had probably seen a lot that told her not to trust any representatives of the authorities. But she had no choice. ‘I want…’ she said eventually. ‘If I know, I tell you.’

  This was what Lynne had feared. Nasim now had nothing else to tell. Her involvement had been as peripheral as she had told Farnham. Enough to incriminate her, not enough to help her. ‘Think,’ she said. ‘Anything. You told us that Matthew Pearse helped several people while you were there. Where did they come from, who sent them, where did they go, who were they – you must know something.’

  Her face was tense with concentration. ‘At first,’ she said, ‘I think it…work, advice. I am trying to learn. But he say, “No.”’ Her hands pleated the edges of her scarf, which had slipped off her hair. ‘So I work on English, I work on leaflet, I…’ She made a gesture to indicate that she couldn’t find the words. Lynne waited, giving her time to think. Nasim Rafiq’s eyes were dark, and Lynne felt an impatient anger with Matthew Pearse for putting her at so much risk. ‘Many weeks now,’ Nasim said. ‘I do not remember.’ Lynne felt her own responsibility. If she had come down hard before Farn-ham had, she could have got this woman some kind of deal, interpreted her behaviour by its spirit rather than by its act.

  ‘Why didn’t you leave,’ she said, ‘once you realized what was going on?’

  ‘Matthew,’ Rafiq said. ‘He say…’ After Katya, he had told her the thing that had come between her and her sleep ever since; ‘You’re involved now. If they find out, you will be in trouble as well.’ Trouble would revoke her leave to stay. It might revoke her family’s right to stay. It would cost her son his sight and her husband his work that paid for their son’s treatment. She had wanted to leave the centre then, but Matthew had said he needed her to be there, ‘Just for a few more weeks.’ He’d promised to find someone else who wouldn’t be as vulnerable as she was.

&nbs
p; But now Rafiq had something else to tell her. ‘Dead woman…’ she began.

  Lynne looked at her. ‘The woman who came to the centre?’

  ‘Matthew say that we do not want police. So I say he comes back from hospital, takes me home. But later.’ She looked at Lynne apprehensively.

  Lynne was frozen for a moment. Had she understood Rafiq? ‘He came back late?’ she said. Rafiq nodded. ‘What time?’

  ‘Late,’ Rafiq said. ‘He take me home, but the car…it stop. It won’t…’ She made a gesture of trying to start a car. The car had broken down. ‘I get home, maybe midnight?’ Lynne closed her eyes. Matthew Pearse had come back from the hospital later than he said, the night that Katya had vanished. In that case, he had no alibi, and they only had his word about the car collecting her from the hospital. Rafiq had sat on that information. Lynne had known she wasn’t telling everything and had played it softly, softly, and now Anna Krleza had vanished. A weight of responsibility dropped on to her shoulders.

  ‘You can help?’ Rafiq’s voice was tentative. She had offered that piece of information in the hope that it would give Lynne something to work with, not realizing the significance of what she had withheld.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Lynne said, the flatness in her voice concealing the anger she felt – towards herself as much as towards Rafiq.

  Nasim’s mouth tightened as she kept her emotions under control. Then she looked at Lynne, and now there was a glimmer of something in her eyes. ‘I write down,’ she said. ‘I am trying to learn. I write down, little bit.’

  ‘You wrote something down?’ Lynne leaned forward. ‘What? What did you write?’

  Nasim stumbled through her explanation. When she had first worked at the advice centre, she had made some notes about what to do if people came. ‘He tells me, do not write it, so I do it secret, after. Or I am forgetting.’