The Tangled Lock (The National Crime Agency Series Book 3)

by Bill Rogers

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘My daughter, Lina. She has a good heart. She said they’d told her they had been robbed in the city centre just after they arrived. Their bags snatched. Everything taken except the money they had on them. No family here. No way they could go back. Lina pleaded. So I told them they could stay till I found a long-term tenant.’

  ‘They must have told you their names.’

  He nodded. ‘Flora Novak, and Natalia Nemeth.’

  ‘Are those their real names?’

  Boros shrugged. ‘Their given names. I think so, because that’s what they called each other. But their family names? Who knows? Without papers it was impossible to tell.’

  ‘Did they say where they came from in Hungary?’

  ‘Budapest. But I think that was a lie. The details were too . . . how do you say . . . ?’

  ‘Sketchy?’

  Boros nodded. ‘Sketchy.’

  ‘Why would they not want you to know?’

  ‘I asked myself that. Then my Lina found out why. She told me. They didn’t want anyone contacting their family.’

  ‘Because they didn’t want their parents to find out how they were earning their living,’ Max guessed.

  Boros shook his head. ‘Not that. Okay, was part of the reason, but it was more than that. They were afraid.’

  ‘Of whom?’ Max asked, although he had a pretty good idea. A familiar story was unfolding here.

  ‘Two young friends in search of adventure,’ he began. ‘One seventeen, the other nineteen. Seeking their fortune in the promised land. England. Just like many of their friends were doing. Just like I did. There was an uncle who had friend, who gives them the promise of jobs. In London. Jobs too good to be true. They arrived in London. They were taken to a house. Had their passports and papers taken away. They were locked in separate rooms. Raped. And put to work.’

  Boros’s fingers encircled his shot glass. He took a deep breath, lifted the glass, and tipped back his head. This time Max made no attempt to stop him. He placed the glass down beside the bottle, bowed his head, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they glistened with tears. He pulled the handkerchief out again, and dabbed them.

  ‘How did they escape?’ Max asked.

  Boros crumpled the handkerchief in his hand, and leaned back in his chair. ‘One morning early Natalia went to the bathroom. Someone had left a set of keys – the keys to their rooms – on the windowsill. She took them, hid them in her panties. When the coast was clear, she let herself out, and unlocked Flora’s door. It was their one chance. They managed to slip out. They were terrified what these men would do if they caught them. They had to get as far away as possible.’

  ‘Why Manchester?’

  ‘Lina said they hitched a lift, and this was where the driver was going.’

  Time and again Max had seen a victim’s fate sealed by such a random event. Walking home instead of taking a taxi; turning left rather than right; having one last drink. Had the driver been going to Leeds or Hull – anywhere other than here – Flora Novak would still be alive.

  ‘They were like daughters to me,’ Boros was saying. ‘Kind and thoughtful. They were the best friends my Lina ever had. When I found out what they were doing, how they were making their money, I offered them both a job in the store.’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t match the money they were earning. Natalia said they needed enough to get new passports, papers. I told her to go to the embassy. Get them for free. But it would mean going down to London. They were too frightened to do that. When Natalia left, I even offered to lend Flora the money, but she wouldn’t take it.’

  He fingered the photograph.

  ‘Foolish, foolish girl.’

  Max stood up. ‘Can I see her room please?’

  The room was neat and tidy. Two single beds in a double bedroom. The beds were made. A small wicker table held a shaving mirror and three pots containing perfume, make-up, brushes, and a comb. On one wall stood a single pine wardrobe with drawers beneath. Max took a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, put them on, and opened the wardrobe door.

  Two pairs of jeans, a pair of trousers, three dresses, a fur-lined anorak, two pairs of shoes – one flat-heeled casual, the other red patent with three-inch heels. Everything looked reasonably new. Probably bought from some of the hundred or so fake fashion outlets in lock-ups between here and Cheetham Hill. Hardly surprising if they had fled their captors with only what they stood up in.

  He pulled open the first of the drawers. The underwear was folded into two neat piles. One sexy and skimpy, the other plain white bras and pants. There was also a bag of tights. The second drawer held two skirts, sweaters, and jumpers. He closed the drawer and turned his attention to the bedside table between the two beds.

  The drawer held a box of tissues, a half-used packet of painkillers, and two months’ supply of oral contraceptives. In the cupboard below was a neat stack of handkerchiefs, two large unopened boxes of condoms, a tube of spermicide, and a battery charger for a mobile phone. He closed the cupboard, felt under the pillow, and pulled out a plain pink cotton pair of pyjamas with a single white heart in the centre of the top. He folded them up, put them back, and sat down on the bed.

  No photos, no diary, no letters. Nothing to link her to a past or a future. Only the trappings of a soulless present. He stood up, lifted the mattress, and looked underneath. Nothing. He knelt down, lay on his side, and looked under the bed. There was a metal box easily within reach. He retrieved it, and placed it on the bedside table.

  It was a black metal, A4, six-inch-deep security box. There was a small chrome lock that required a key but of which a screwdriver would make short shrift. He held it to his ear, and tilted it. There was a faint brushing sound as something light and soft slid across the floor of the box.

  Max stepped to the window. It looked out over a large yard, and the depressing backs of neighbouring Victorian factories and warehouses. He tried to imagine her standing here recalling a very different view back home in Hungary. He shook his head. If only they had gone to the police.

  He chose from the dressing table a brush that still had hairs attached, and went in search of the bathroom. Finding nothing significant there, he went back down to the office.

  Boros was slumped in his chair. The bottle was half empty. He looked up as Max entered the room.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ he asked. His speech was slurred.

  Max held up the box, and the brush, which was now in a transparent evidence bag.

  ‘I would like your permission to take these,’ he said. ‘I can always come back with a warrant if you insist.’

  ‘Take them.’

  ‘I’ll also need the photo,’ said Max.

  Boros pulled it towards him, and clutched it protectively. ‘It’s alright,’ Max told him. ‘I’ll take a copy with my phone.’

  When he had finished, he handed the photo back to Boros.

  ‘Has Flora’s friend Natalia been in touch with you or your daughter since she left?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure, about your daughter?’

  He looked up. His eyes were bleary.

  ‘I’d know. She tells me everything. She’s a good girl.’

  Max had heard that too many times from parents doomed to be disappointed. Usually from the fathers.

  ‘Even so, I’d like a word with her before I go.’

  Boros heaved himself unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘I’ll get her,’ he said. ‘Someone has to be on the checkout.’

  He paused.

  ‘Working in the shop all hours, my daughter doesn’t have many friends her own age.’ He fingered the photograph. Sniffed, and corrected himself. ‘Now she’s alone again.’

  He stopped in the doorway, and turned. ‘One thing, Officer. How did Flora die?’

  ‘Quickly,’ Max replied, hoping that it was the truth.

  Chapter 27

  ‘How do you
intend to play this?’ Jo asked.

  They were standing in the corridor outside Interview Room 2.

  ‘With a straight bat,’ Ince replied. ‘Henshall’s a serving officer, accompanied by his legal insurance solicitor, and his Federation rep. They all know the ropes.’ He straightened his tie. ‘Did the women who made the allegations come through with those DNA swabs?’

  ‘They took some persuading,’ Jo said. ‘They only agreed to go ahead when DCI Holmes gave them written assurances about what would happen to the samples after the investigation, and any subsequent trial.’

  ‘That gets us over the first hurdle,’ Ince said. ‘Now we have to pray they don’t get cold feet if this goes to court.’

  ‘When it goes to court,’ Jo said. ‘That rug is a coincidence too far. If you find their DNA on that rug or anywhere in his car, his only defence is going to be consensual sex. That’s gross misconduct even without an element of coercion. And if he’s capable of that, who’s the jury going to believe?’

  Ince looked sceptical. ‘CSI said it looked like the rug had been cleaned. Any trace evidence is unlikely to prove that sex took place. It’ll still be his word against theirs. He’ll claim he stopped to move them on. He sat them in the back of the car while he spoke to them.’

  There was a moment’s silence. He shuffled his feet. ‘Where are you and DCI Holmes up to in relation to any connection between Henshall and Firethorn?’

  ‘The search of the house, car, and his work locker provided no evidence of his involvement in any of the Firethorn murders. What’s more, he was still in uniform when the first of the Firethorn murders was committed. His work rota shows he was on nights in the city centre. He and his partner processed a drunk and disorderly, and an assault occasioning actual bodily harm. He’s not our unsub. I never thought he was.’

  ‘There you go then,’ said Ince. He handed Jo a double-sided sheet of A4. ‘This is the interview strategy. Given you’re the one those women came to first and you were there when I arrested him, the Crown Prosecution Service will need you to give evidence if it goes all the way, so you’re welcome to sit in. On balance, it’s probably best that you do.’

  The message was clear: keep your mouth shut, and let me do the interview. Jo wasn’t the least bit offended. This was his case after all. She also had the impression he’d finally discovered that she was not the red-blooded heterosexual he’d taken her for. She smiled. It saved her having to tell him herself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.

  ‘The thought of seeing DC Henshall getting his just deserts,’ she replied. ‘Not so much funny, more satisfying.’

  Flanked by his solicitor and Federation rep, Henshall appeared to have regained his composure. He looked positively smug.

  ‘To expedite matters,’ said the solicitor as soon as the preliminaries were over, ‘I should like to read a statement on behalf of my client.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Ince.

  ‘DC Henshall believes that he is the victim of a conspiracy. He maintains that these are malicious and false allegations made by three common prostitutes solely because he has exercised his professional duty by reminding them that under Section 16 of the Policing and Crime Act 2009 it is an offence to persistently loiter or solicit in a street or public place for the purpose of offering one’s services as a prostitute.’

  ‘I am well aware of the law,’ said Ince sourly. ‘But I am surprised that neither you nor DC Henshall appears to be aware that the term “common prostitute” no longer applies as a legal definition.’

  Jo took vicarious pleasure in seeing the grin wiped from Henshall’s face.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ his solicitor responded, ‘this is a clear case of three sex workers fabricating a story against an officer who, unlike many of his colleagues, chose to enforce the law rather than turn a blind eye.’

  Ince raised his eyebrows.

  ‘By threatening them with arrest unless they availed him of those very services for which they were soliciting?’

  ‘That’s not—’ the solicitor began.

  Ince held up his hand.

  ‘You’ve read out your client’s statement,’ he said. ‘Now I would like to hear from your client himself. Specifically I would like DC Henshall to answer a few questions.’

  The Federation rep leaned forward across the table.

  ‘Before you do,’ he said, ‘I would like to know what an officer from the National Crime Agency is doing here.’

  ‘I can tell you that,’ said Henshall. ‘She’s working the Firethorn investigation. The murders of those other prostitutes? She’s hoping to pin them on me. This is a fishing expedition. That’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘That is not true,’ said Ince. ‘SI Stuart is here at my invitation firstly because the allegations against your client were originally made to her, and secondly in order that your client can be eliminated from Operation Firethorn. I can confirm that DC Henshall is not now a person of interest in relation to that investigation. Isn’t that right, SI Stuart?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jo said. ‘At this moment in time Mr Henshall is not a person of interest to us.’

  Henshall slammed the table with the flat of his hand. ‘At this moment in time? What the hell does that mean?’

  His tone was angry, his stare threatening. This was the flip side of the laughing policeman, Jo realised. It wasn’t difficult to imagine how each of those girls must have felt when he came on to them. His solicitor placed a warning hand over his.

  ‘That was what I was about to ask,’ the solicitor said.

  ‘It means what it says,’ Jo replied. ‘I have no reason to suspect that your client is involved in the murder of sex workers. However, should new information emerge that causes us to revise that view you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Now that we’ve clarified that,’ said Ince, ‘I suggest we get on with this interview.’ He glanced down at his notes.

  ‘DC Henshall, do you recognise any of these women?’

  He placed three photographs side by side on the table. The solicitor and Federation rep leaned forward to look at them. Henshall gave them a cursory glance. He sat back and folded his arms.

  ‘Are these the bitches that have cooked the story together?’ he said.

  ‘Take your time,’ said Ince.

  Henshall looked to his solicitor and then his rep for a lead. Jo read the unspoken question on the tip of his tongue: Do I No Comment this? When neither of them responded, he sighed, leaned forward, and pretended to take a proper look. He sat back again.

  ‘Well?’ said Ince.

  Henshall shrugged. ‘They look familiar. Can’t say where from though.’

  ‘How about the red-light district around Piccadilly station?’ Ince prompted.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Henshall replied. He smiled thinly. ‘But then they all look the same, don’t they?’

  ‘The same?’ said Jo, unable to contain herself.

  Beneath the table Ince nudged her with his knee. Henshall’s smile became a sneer.

  ‘Knee-high boots, pelmet skirts, skimpy tops. Fixed smiles cracking their make-up. Desperate. Pathetic.’

  His Federation rep whispered in his ear. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what he was saying.

  ‘But it is possible that you’ve spoken to these girls?’ said Ince.

  ‘I might have come across them,’ said Henshall. ‘When I was on the streets working Piccadilly station, and Beswick. I would have told them to move on. Doing my job.’

  ‘What about more recently? Since you became a detective?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And while you were doing your job, might you have asked them to sit in your car?’ Ince asked. ‘Any of them?’

  Henshall stared up at the ceiling as though trying to remember. Jo knew he was considering his options. The cars and vans he would have used during that time would have been used by dozens of officers by now. The interiors routinely cleaned. Valeted after every service. Okay, so he’d cleaned hi
s own car. But if the slightest trace of any one of them was found in his car. If he denied it now and they found the slightest trace . . .

  ‘You don’t have to answer that,’ said his solicitor.

  Ince ramped up the pressure. ‘I’m sure I do not need to remind you,’ he said, ‘that it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Henshall.

  The look his Federation rep gave him spoke volumes.

  ‘That one or more of these women sat in your car? And why would you ask them to get in your car?’

  ‘So I could speak to them. It’s got to be better than standing in the cold and the rain, hasn’t it?’

  ‘So where did they sit?’

  ‘Objection!’ said the solicitor. ‘That’s a leading question. My client hasn’t said they did.’

  ‘This isn’t a courtroom,’ Ince reminded him. ‘However, I’m happy to rephrase the question. So, DC Henshall, had they hypothetically been sitting in your car, where would they have sat? In the front passenger seat? In the back?’

  ‘It’s a hypothetical question. You do not need to answer that,’ said the solicitor.

  Ince turned to Jo. ‘Either the front passenger seat or the rear nearside passenger seat.’

  ‘Standard procedure for an officer on his own,’ she agreed. ‘Mind you, an unaccompanied male officer inviting a lone female sex worker into a car that is not equipped with internal camera footage?’ She tutted. ‘Sounds like a hell of a risk.’

  ‘My client did not—’ the solicitor began.

  ‘Moving on,’ said Ince, ‘I wonder if you can tell us what this is, DC Henshall.’

  He placed another photograph on the table.

  Jo spotted the sudden dilation of Henshall’s pupils. It never failed to amaze her that however prepared a person might be – and in this case he must have known they would find it – there was little or nothing they could do to suppress an autonomic response.