‘Set alight,’ nodded Ostrowsky. ‘It’s okay. I have insurance …’
‘How do you know it was burned?’ asked Brook.
‘Inspector, I’m from Eastern Europe but I’m sure it’s the same here. You steal a car and when you don’t need, you burn to get rid of fingerprints, no?’
‘I suppose.’
He shrugged. ‘So where do I sign?’
‘It’s not that simple,’ replied Brook. ‘We’re going to need more details about the theft – whose possession it was in, when it was last seen, that sort of thing. Just routine.’
‘Just routine,’ echoed Ostrowsky, gazing at Brook. ‘In my country, inspectors don’t dirty their hands with stolen vehicles.’
‘No?’ Brook smiled into the gap the businessman left for elaboration.
‘You’d better come upstairs,’ said Ostrowsky.
Brook and Noble followed Ostrowsky past the gutted ground floor and up the wide staircase to a similar space that was much nearer completion. Even so, it was a hive of activity. Half a dozen men in dusty, stained overalls were hammering, sawing and drilling for all they were worth. One of them barked an instruction to a colleague in Polish.
A younger man in smart apparel stood behind a tarpaulin-covered bar stacking boxes. Unbidden, his eyes flicked solicitously towards Ostrowsky.
‘Espresso,’ said Ostrowsky, turning to Brook and Noble. ‘And whatever these officers want.’ Brook and Noble demurred with a swift shake of the head, and the barman headed for a door at the back of the bar. ‘Where are you going, Ashley?’ barked Ostrowsky.
The barman hesitated. ‘To make the espresso.’
‘Where is … ?’ Ostrowsky waved a hand in frustration.
‘He hasn’t shown up yet, sir,’ mumbled Ashley.
‘Sukinsyn!’ exclaimed Ostrowsky. ‘Fucking British workers,’ he continued without concern for the sensibilities of the nervous barman.
‘Do you still want the coffee, Mr O?’ Ashley asked timidly.
Ostrowsky nodded and the barman dutifully disappeared. The businessman plucked a burning cigarette from an ashtray and stubbed it out. A bottle of vodka and a half-full shot glass stood next to it. He took a sip and contemplated the two detectives, composure regained.
‘I hope you’re not planning to drive later, sir,’ said Noble.
Ostrowsky looked at the glass. ‘I never drive, Sergeant – one of the perks of success. Excuse me. Tymon,’ he shouted over the din of the workmen, beckoning to a large, bald-headed man who was clearly not involved in the building work because he wore an ill-fitting suit that looked like it had shrunk in the wash. Not that the suit was cheap, more that the man inside it was so muscle-bound that the material clung to his physique like skin, riding up over his wrists and ankles in search of a smaller man.
Tymon sidled over to them, unable to describe a straight line with his thick legs, which rotated in their sockets. His gimlet eyes flicked briefly up and down Brook and Noble with distaste.
‘Gdzie jest Makszi?’ Ostrowsky gestured at Brook. ‘Policji.’ Brook raised a discreet eyebrow. Policji – police.
Tymon shrugged at Ostrowsky in reply, his neck squeezing over his tight collar like a rubber ring. Ostrowsky made the international signal for a telephone and Tymon took out his mobile and depressed a flabby thumb on to the keypad as he made his way to a quieter part of the room.
‘Max is an electrician. We’re calling him.’
‘But you’re the registered owner,’ put in Noble.
Ostrowsky held out his hands. ‘I’m a businessman. I import goods. I have vehicles.’
‘Where did you keep the stolen van?’
‘Max kept it with him.’
Tymon returned and barked something in Polish at Ostrowsky. ‘Huj w dupe policji.’
Ostrowsky grimaced at Brook with theatrical regret. ‘Max isn’t answering his cell, I’m afraid.’
‘Do you know where he might be?’ asked Noble.
The businessman’s beaming smile returned. ‘Probably out on a job. I’d ask him to ring but his English isn’t very good.’
‘Then how did he manage to report the stolen van to the police?’ asked Brook.
‘He knows his name, also street names he needs,’ said Ostrowsky, without missing a beat.
‘Arboretum Street,’ said Noble. ‘Is that where he lives?’
‘Or it’s one of his jobs,’ shrugged Ostrowsky. ‘I don’t know. He’s looking for a place to live. He’s not long in your country.’
‘You say you have other vehicles,’ said Brook. ‘Where are they kept?’
‘They are delivered to my warehouse in Pride Park and my drivers pick them up from there.’
‘We went there first,’ said Brook. ‘What else do you keep in your warehouse besides vans you don’t drive?’
Ostrowsky picked up on the tone. ‘I import Polish goods for my bar. In a container. Twice a month. I have three Polish grocery shops also. I can show you invoice and paperwork for vans tomorrow if that helps.’ He handed Brook a business card from a hip pocket.
‘Thank you,’ said Brook, taking it without a glance. ‘But in the meantime we need a word with your brother. Where does he work?’
‘Who knows? He doesn’t tell me. Many different houses.’
‘He must be staying somewhere.’
‘Let me check,’ said Ostrowsky, looking round theatrically.
‘We need his mobile number too,’ said Noble.
‘Of course.’ Ostrowsky turned to rummage through a pile of documents on the raised bar and plucked out a card to give to Noble. ‘Max was staying in this boarding house while he looked for accommodations. He’s a very hard worker if you need … rewiring.’
‘Phone number?’
‘Tymon.’ Ostrowsky held out a hand for the big man’s phone without looking at the giant and flicked at a button to read out the number. Noble jotted it down. Brook was tempted to demand the phone to verify but he resisted. It would be simple enough to check.
‘Is that on a Polish network?’ asked Noble. The lead in his pencil snapped.
‘Bought in UK.’ Ostrowsky smiled. ‘Everything’s cheaper here. Except electricity. But that’s because you closed your mining industry and import Polish coal.’ He guffawed long and violently, stopping as suddenly as he’d begun. ‘You English.’ He reached for a pen. ‘A Bar Polski pen,’ he said, handing it to Noble. ‘With compliments.’
‘Normally we prefer pencils,’ said Brook. ‘It’s easier to alter our notes later.’
‘Ah, you have served with the PRP, I see,’ said Ostrowsky, grinning. ‘In Poland, the evidence is never settled until money changes hands.’
‘May I take a pen in case I want to book a table?’
‘Of course, Inspector.’ Ostrowsky was quick to oblige and Brook took the offered pen and slipped it into a breast pocket. ‘Naturally your first meal here with your lady friend is free.’
‘That’s very kind,’ said Brook, ignoring Noble’s sly glance. ‘Tell me, Mr Ostrowsky, how do you say screw the police in Polish?’
Ostrowsky’s smile faded and he contemplated Brook. He was about to respond when a workman called out and gestured towards a soberly dressed man carrying a battered briefcase, staring intently at the ceiling. The bar owner’s smile returned.
‘The inspector of buildings. Forgive me, officers, but I have a bigger fish to cook.’ He extended an arm to usher them away, eyes cold. ‘You know where you can reach me if you need.’
‘You didn’t push him very hard,’ said Noble, mobile phone held to his ear as soon as they were outside. Brook fished out his own antiquated mobile, switched it on with a huge depression of the thumb and called the number on Noble’s notepad.
‘No answer from the B and B,’ said Noble.
‘There wouldn’t be. Max lives in Arboretum Street.’
‘Then we should go back in and get a house number,’ said Noble.
‘Anything in the pack?’
Noble flicked t
hrough the wallet. ‘The attending officer took down the Pride Park address. Ostrowsky’s brother either didn’t understand or didn’t want us to know where he lived.’
‘The mobile number doesn’t exist,’ said Brook lowering his phone.
‘Honest mistake?’
‘Not a chance,’ said Brook.
‘To be fair, I’m not sure I’d hand over my brother’s contact details to a foreign police force.’
‘You haven’t got a brother.’
‘But if I did. Do we go back?’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that we were lied to,’ said Noble.
‘Everybody lies to us, John.’
‘Okay. On the grounds that we’ve got a young girl lying on a steel trolley who was dumped in one of his vans.’
‘Which was stolen,’ said Brook. He came to a decision. ‘He’s not under thirty or called Jake and he didn’t appear unduly worried about the theft of his van, so it’ll keep.’
‘I still don’t like being lied to.’
‘You should be used to it.’
‘I am. Doesn’t mean …’ Noble held up a hand as his phone rang. ‘No, go ahead,’ he said into the phone. He looked significantly at Brook.
‘Fingerprint?’ ventured Brook.
Noble nodded. ‘Got a current address?’ He looked at Brook and gave a thumbs-up. ‘Milton Flats. We’re ten minutes away.’
The building inspector shook Ostrowsky’s hand. ‘Everything seems fine, though I don’t know if you’ll be opening on time, Mr …’
‘We will if we don’t employ any more British workers,’ replied Ostrowsky coldly. He showed the inspector the staircase. ‘You can find your way, no?’
When the man had left, Ostrowsky bellowed across at Tymon in Polish. ‘Go find Max and get him here. Now!’
Max took another long slug of vodka and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He slammed the near-empty bottle down on the cigarette-singed bureau beside the bed. To manage the feat he was required to stop stroking his genitalia under the thin nylon sheet that crackled every time he moved his rough hands across it.
Propping himself up against the flimsy velvet headboard, he gazed at the undernourished girl as she dressed, scratching at his bare stomach as he stared. She was barely out of school and had hardly any meat on her. Her breasts were little more than bumps and her arms and legs were like the thin branches of a sapling. Her flesh was white – apart from the line of dark red blemishes and bruises that marked her from shoulder to wrist.
‘What your name?’ enquired Max in his broken English.
The girl smiled nervously. ‘Are you a copper or summat?’
Max guffawed, nodding with amusement. ‘You think if I copper, I pay, cipa. Idiota.’
The girl pulled her slip over her head. No bra. Too time-consuming when some of the cheapskates just wanted a quick suck and tit-fuck. ‘Whatevs.’
Play ball, her mum had taught her. Keep talking but sort the money and get the fuck out asap.
‘Tell me,’ insisted Max.
The girl stepped into her denim skirt and pulled it up to her tiny waist, buttoning it before swivelling it round the right way and brushing herself down. She slipped into her shoes. No tights – impossible in cars. ‘It’s Lola, if you must know.’
‘Lola?’ Max laughed again. ‘You lying cipa.’
His eyes pierced her and she reached into her clutch bag for a cigarette. ‘Whatever you say, lover.’
‘Cut your hair,’ said Max softly, still contemplating her.
‘You what?’ she replied hoarsely, turning her dead eyes to him as she fumbled for her lighter.
‘Cut your hair.’ He reached drunkenly for the bottle again and took another gulp of fire. ‘And then. Ssij suko.’
‘Come again?’
‘Exact,’ nodded Max, his eyes flashing, slurring, ‘Then you can suck my dick, bitch.’
She smiled nervously, her teeth already rotting under the assault of drugs, booze and smokes. She turned back to the cracked mirror for a last onceover, perhaps hastening her movements imperceptibly. ‘My, aren’t you the frisky one,’ she said, keeping her reply airy, unconcerned.
‘You don’t want suck my dick?’ asked Max plaintively, swinging his legs from under the cheap duvet to the music of ancient springs.
The girl thought of the money already in her clutch, nestling next to the nickel bag of one-on-one calling her to deaden the pain. The john had coughed fifty for anal and he didn’t look like no roller with his filthy overalls and scuffed boots. But another thirty and she might have enough left over to get chips for the kids … ‘That’s an extra thirty. You got that, lover?’
‘I got,’ smiled Max, walking naked towards her from the bed, his semi already preparing for her attentions. Quick as lightning, belying his thickset middleweight’s frame, he grabbed her arm.
‘You got to wash it first,’ said Lola. ‘I don’t know where it’s been.’
Max grinned at her, his eyes cold and black. ‘Yes you do,’ he whispered. He guided her across the threadbare carpet, noxious substances gripping the soles of his feet, and stopped near the chair. He put a hand down to his satchel, pulled out his wallet and took out a note. ‘Here is fifty.’
Lola eyed the money greedily, then grabbed the note and scuttled across to her tiny handbag and thrust it deep inside, as though the further down she drove the bill, the more certain it was that the money was hers.
When she turned back to him, rearranging her limbs into a more coquettish pose, she froze at the sight of the scissors in his hand.
‘What are you doing?’
‘First, cut hair. Short, like boy.’
‘What?’
‘So I can hold.’ He grinned at her, relishing his power over this weak, drug-addled girl; made a fist in front of his penis to make his meaning clear.
‘I’ll pass on the haircut, if it’s all the same to you.’ Lola tried to keep her smile intact but her fear began to bite. She wasn’t a stranger to a punch. Sometimes she even took a more sustained beating but no-one had ever used a blade on her. No-one had ever cut her – except herself back in school. She backed slowly away, her phoney desire disappearing like heat haze on a road.
Max’s grin disappeared and he stalked after her at the same speed. ‘Not all right,’ he growled. ‘I give you bonus. You get short hair for free.’
‘Well I don’t want it cut,’ she said defiantly. ‘My old man—’
‘Fuck your old man,’ snarled Max. ‘And fuck you. Keep still or I cut you good.’
Lola gulped and her breathing quickened. At the wall she could retreat no further; she opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Not that anyone would have rushed to her aid in this scarcely furnished fleapit, where the noise of violence and discord rent the air at regular intervals.
Max pressed against her, rubbing his penis into her stomach with glee, watching her fear as he held the scissors to her face. Lola closed her eyes to them, the only self-defence mechanism in her pathetic armoury. At least not to see made it quicker. She’d learned as much in previous attacks. Look away so they can’t see the hurt. Then maybe they won’t linger, won’t take the pleasure from it.
‘You don’t want watch,’ he said, banging her head gently against the wall.
She gave out a little whimper and began to slide down to the floor, but Max pulled her up roughly by the hair and pushed her back against the mildewed wallpaper.
‘Keep still,’ he said, looking intently at her scalp. He grabbed a fistful of her lank brown hair, raised the scissors and cut a huge clump close to her head, discarding it on to the wafer-thin carpet. He grabbed another strand and yanked her head towards him.
In the corner of the room, a tinny rendition of the Ride of the Valkyries erupted – his brother’s call sign. Max cursed, let go of Lola’s hair and returned to the bedside bureau to inspect his phone.
The commotion of Lola gathering her courage and streaking for the door dis
tracted him, and he threw the phone on the mattress and leapt after her.
‘Where you going, cipa?’ shouted Max.
‘Let me go,’ screamed Lola. She’d managed to get the door half open when Max arrived to block her path and push her back into the room.
He stood panting in front of her, his face angry, his erection waning. Gesturing with the scissors still in his hand, his grin returned and he moved to close the door, but a strong, pudgy hand prevented him.
‘Tymon,’ exclaimed Max, releasing the door.
‘You’re a hard man to find,’ said Tymon in Polish, stepping across the threshold. He looked distastefully around the seedy room. ‘Get dressed. Your brother wants you.’ He saw Lola cowering in a corner. ‘Get out, whore,’ he said, also in Polish, thumbing at the door to translate.
Slowly, like a cornered animal, Lola accepted her reprieve. After gathering her belongings, she moved warily around the room to the door, keeping her distance from Max. When she was closer to the door than her naked client, she darted up to him and spat in his face, screamed, ‘Fucking freak!’ and scuttled out.
Max made a move to grab her, but Tymon interposed himself between the naked man and the retreating girl. Tapping his watch, he grinned at Max. ‘Get dressed.’
Eighteen
Booted and suited, Brook watched as scene-of-crime officers went about their work, examining, photographing, bagging and tagging the few artefacts in the three-room flat. The real search would be for the small stuff – DNA, hair and skin samples, fibres and blood. If the girl had died before being dumped in the van, every site connected to the suspects was a potential murder scene, and what better place to find evidence of murder than a killer’s home. It was what the Crown Prosecution Service called a slam-dunk. The lawyers over there watched far too much American TV.
Brook gazed methodically around at the rudiments of comfort. There was a grubby sofa and a stained chipboard coffee table facing a massive TV on a stand – funny how poverty seemed to affect the size of the television in a home. The more deprived couldn’t afford to go out, so a serious investment in home entertainment seemed like money well borrowed. A hideous wrought-iron standard lamp with no shade completed the furnishings.
And that was it for the lounge. The kitchenette, on the other side of a token partition, contained a seriously dilapidated oven that didn’t look like it had roasted a chicken in decades. A dirty saucepan and frying pan on the hob suggested a life of fried meats and beans, though there were no supplies in the cupboard to confirm it, and no fridge either. The stainless-steel sink was only slightly cleaner, though the ancient worktop was rotting around it.
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