Dark Game: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked! (Detective Kelly Porter Book 1)

by Rachel Lynch

  ‘This one?’ Kelly showed him the photo of the mansion booked through Elite Escapes.

  ‘It could be.’ Darren studied it. ‘The driveway looks familiar. I only ever saw it in the dark.’

  ‘What really happened to Nush?’ Kelly asked.

  Darren’s expression was sly. ‘Sasha killed her and gave me her stuff.’

  ‘Where’s her body?’

  ‘Could I please have a fag at least?’

  Kelly nodded and he reached in to his pocket, pulled out a packet, and lit up. Kelly fancied one herself. She waited.

  ‘He told me that he wanted a package taken care of, but when he turned up with it, it was big and heavy and I had to help him carry it from his car to mine.’

  ‘Why didn’t he simply discard it himself?’

  ‘So he could pin shit on me, I guess.’

  Kelly acknowledged this as plausible. ‘Did you know what was in it?’

  ‘He said it was that red-haired bitch.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘We took some weights and chains and threw it in the dock.’

  ‘Barrow Dock?’

  ‘Be more specific.’

  Darren exhaled deeply. ‘The old dry docks.’

  Chapter 46

  Altcourse Prison held just over a thousand men, on what the prison service classed as Category B offences. Tom Brian Day should’ve been Category A, but Daddy had pulled some very long strings.

  He sat on his bed and read a magazine. He was anxious. They’d taken his laptop again. Without it, he became paranoid and aggressive. It wasn’t because of what was on the computer – far from it, that was safe as houses; it was more the fact that Tom Day was addicted to screens and had been since he was fifteen years old. Every time a new gadget came on the market, it would be bought for him; so that now, he knew his way around any machine blindfolded.

  His mother had confiscated DSs, iPads, phones and TVs for weeks on end, but he always found a way to get in front of a screen, any screen.

  Now, without one, he didn’t know what to do with his hands, and the magazine was dull, as they all were. Not being able to interact, connect headphones or surf was killing him, and the guards knew it. They liked to play with him every now and again, just to keep him in no doubt of who was in charge.

  They all came to him for advice on online banking, compensation, PPI, investment schemes and anything else to do with financial management. After years of finding ways to hide money for his father, he was an expert.

  He smiled. And now it was all his.

  He had possibly two months to wait out in this shithole, and then he’d be able to get out and spend it. Every penny was safe. Every little bit went through Tomb Day, with its non-existent board of directors and its mailing addresses in Canary Wharf. The ultimate shell that he’d created. When he got out, he’d sell the idea and the protection pathways. It was way more sophisticated than foreign subsidiaries, and with international law becoming a pain in the arse, he had people queuing up for it from Mexico to Azerbaijan. He’d pissed his pants when the Azerbaijan laundromat had crumbled. It never would have done on his watch.

  He’d already made several contacts who were interested. It was easy to spot shell companies and even easier to track them, but not his. He could tell when someone was trying to hack into Tomb Day, but they hit the firewall every time. They’d never get in.

  He compared himself to a builder of foundations – the more solid the work, the longer it would last – and he used his time wisely. Except when they thought it was funny to take his laptop for a day.

  He’d completed his sixty daily press-ups, twenty pull-ups and three hundred sit-ups, and he was mind-numbingly bored. They’d be let outside soon, but for now, he had no choice other than to sleep, wank or read this useless magazine. At least it had some decent tits in it.

  He missed sex like crazy. That was the other reason he needed his laptop back: it kept his mind on an even keel by stimulating his senses, and occasionally he could satisfy the cravings with porn.

  He sprang off the bed and paced up and down. He could taste his own frustration.

  * * *

  In the prison director’s office, two uniforms were asking questions about Tom Day. The director told them that Day had been an ideal inmate who hadn’t shown any signs of violence, which was why he’d qualify for early release when the time came. He kept his nose clean, had good relationships with the guards, and didn’t ask for anything apart from to be left alone.

  ‘We’ll need to question him and search his cell.’

  ‘Of course. What’s it related to, Officer?’

  ‘We’re not at liberty to say at the moment, but we have reason to look into his financial affairs.’

  ‘Financial affairs? That’s doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the uniform.

  ‘Because there’s not a guard here who doesn’t go to Day for advice about money.’

  The director made a phone call, and within five minutes a prison guard knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ shouted the director. ‘Spinks. Tom Day, you know him well, don’t you?’ ‘Fairly well, sir,’ the guard replied.

  ‘What does he do all day? What’s his business?’

  ‘Sits on his laptop playing computer games mostly, sir. He helps pretty much everyone out with their serious stuff as well; you know, banking, bills, deals and shares. He knows everything about everything.’

  ‘We’ll need to seize any computer equipment as part of our inquiry,’ said one of the officers.

  ‘I’ll take you down if you like,’ offered the guard.

  The two uniforms followed him and the director clasped his hands together.

  These youngsters never learned. Two months from release and Day was up to something. Stupid, stupid man. The director shook his head. He would tell his wife about it this evening. Nature versus nurture: they discussed it most mealtimes. Tom Day had been born into a well-respected family and had had money and privilege thrown at him from birth. The director’s wife argued for nurture, but he said nature. In the case of Tom Day, he suspected he might win this one.

  Chapter 47

  Jack Croft waited in line to enter the Channel Tunnel. His windows were closed so the wind couldn’t bring in the stench from the migrant camp two miles away. This was the riskiest part of the journey. It wasn’t the French he was worried about; they’d love to get rid of as many of them as possible, and although checks were regular, they weren’t as sustained this side of the Channel. It was the other side that he had to worry about.

  He’d told himself that this would be his last job, but given how easy the journey had been, now he wasn’t so sure. The money was good and he planned to retire when he’d saved enough. He’d got away with it so many times, but the visit from the police had made him nervous.

  He tapped on his steering wheel and moved along slowly. He’d be home by early morning. The back of his lorry was quiet; they were well briefed.

  The journey through the tunnel was the same as always: airless and noisy, and he longed for a beer. On the other side, he saw land out of the window and jumped back into his cabin. He’d taken all the necessary precautions.

  As he exited the tunnel and approached the customs checkpoint, Border Force officers waved for him to pull over. Croft wasn’t overly alarmed as it’d happened a few times before. They usually checked his paperwork for contents and expected weight, and asked him to drive onto a special road scale to see if the figures matched.

  He jumped out of the cabin and remained calm.

  He was asked to open the back doors, which he did placidly. He attempted polite conversation with the officers. They looked like police personnel – and occasionally acted like it – but they were nothing more than jumped-up bus drivers strutting around in body armour. A bit like St John’s Ambulance volunteers pretending to be doctors.

  It was only when two officers leading large dogs appeared from behind him that his pulse quic
kened.

  ‘Could we see your itinerary and load documents please, sir.’

  He got the documents from the cabin and they checked the details carefully.

  Large boxes blocked the lorry’s compartment from the back, as they were supposed to, but instead of closing the doors, three officers began unloading the crates.

  ‘Hey, mate, this is gonna put me right back. You’ve seen the—’ Croft began.

  ‘Step aside, please, sir.’ A female officer led him gently by the arm to one side. He felt like shoving her off and making a run for it.

  A gap formed between the boxes and the dogs jumped in and started barking straight away. Then another officer climbed up holding some sort of contraption in his hand. As he waved it about, it lit up like Christmas. The officers moved more boxes and Croft knew the game was up. They weren’t stopping.

  Once they reached the middle of the container, they came across a couple of wardrobes and the dogs went crazy. It took three men to move one of the large pieces of furniture to the side; behind it huddled a gaggle of frightened people, thirty of them crammed into the tiny space.

  ‘Come with me, sir, please.’

  Jack Croft was led away.

  * * *

  The passengers were brought out one by one as officers took photographs and checked for any injuries or illnesses. They were asked if they understood English and if they knew where they were. One man broke down and held up his dirty, worn hands. ‘Please new life, please new life,’ he said, over and over again.

  Every day the officers found more and more vehicles like this one. They felt like bastards ending the dreams of these people who’d fallen prey to the increasing number of drivers – UK citizens – willing to risk it all to make some extra money so they could buy a sixty-inch TV rather than their fifty-inch one; have two holidays instead of one; buy more clothes, a new car, toys for their kids.

  By comparison, these poor fuckers had probably fled war, seen loved ones killed, travelled thousands of miles with little food or water, only to be turned round at the last minute. It drove the officers mad when celebrities just couldn’t keep their mouths shut and demanded that everyone should be taken in for the love of humanity but didn’t offer to put them up in their own mansions. It just didn’t work like that.

  It hurt like hell when they looked these poor people in the eyes and saw only torture and anguish; it hurt knowing they’d probably end up in filthy camps hastily set up across Europe and woefully under-resourced. Immigration and Border Force officers weren’t paid well enough for what they did, but they kept on doing it because they were professionals. But like many public-sector workers, they were detested just for doing their job.

  Chapter 48

  Finally Kelly had enough to start chasing warrants. Beckett had been charged with conspiracy to abduct a minor, allowing the death of a minor, concealing criminal property, preventing legal and decent burial, aiding prostitution, soliciting to murder, and murder. Kelly juggled her time between the Home Office, the Foreign Office and now the UK Border Force. She and her team were worn out, but they could smell the finish line.

  Gabriela Kaminski was waiting for Kelly in the foyer of the Troutbeck Guest House. She was tiny and strikingly pretty, and she spoke in a whisper. She was visibly scared. Kelly stretched out her hand and Gabriela took it tentatively. George led them into the empty dining room so they wouldn’t be disturbed.

  ‘So I believe an officer following up my investigation averted a potentially horrible situation for you?’ Kelly spoke softly, matching the girl’s attitude.

  Gabriela nodded.

  ‘Gabriela, are you here legally?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Joliffe has my paperwork and my passport.’

  ‘Why did you give her your passport?’

  ‘She gave me no choice.’

  ‘So you are kind of beholden to her, then? That’s a little worrying.’

  Gabriela nodded. Kelly had a healthy suspicion that this petite little mouse knew a lot more than she was letting on; George had also told her that she had been Anushka Ivanov’s roommate.

  ‘I’ve got some photographs here, Gabriela. Could you look at them one by one and tell me if you recognise any of them.’

  The girl took the pile of photographs and studied them carefully.

  ‘That’s Anushka. This one is Roza; she hasn’t been back either.’ The photograph of Roza was the one that Darren had seemed to recognise in his interview, Kelly noted.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘A few nights before Anushka left.’

  ‘Do you know why Darren Beckett came looking for you?’

  ‘I think he wanted Nush’s things. These.’ Gabriela held up the photos of the Rolex and the ruby ring.

  ‘And you know where they are?’

  ‘I have them.’

  Clever girl, thought Kelly. They’d been her insurance all along. She knew who she was dealing with. No wonder she was so scared.

  ‘What exactly do you do for Mrs Joliffe, Gabriela?’

  ‘I’m the night manager. I didn’t know what was expected of me, but Mrs Joliffe showed me. Men come here, and girls meet them.’

  ‘Could you describe any of them? Are there regulars?’

  ‘I made sketches.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Kelly thought she’d misheard.

  ‘I made sketches of them all. There was nothing else to do and Mrs Joliffe scared me. I thought if she ever tried to force me to do something I didn’t want to do, I could use them. I’ll show you. I want to study art when I get back home.’

  Gabriela stood up, and Kelly followed her up three flights of stairs to an attic room, squeezing in behind her. Gabriela went to her wardrobe and took out a large bag, laying it open on the bed. Kelly looked from the contents to the girl and back again. She’d been busy. She took out the envelope stuffed full of sketches and looked at them one by one. The drawings were stunning; the girl could be a forensic artist any day of the week.

  Gabriela handed her a small drawstring bag and Kelly felt inside. She pulled out a roll of cash and some items wrapped in tissue: the watch and the ring. She looked back to the bag on the bed and noticed the laptop at the bottom; she could have hugged Gabriela. She didn’t need to open it to know that it was the one from Colin Day’s room. And now they had his son’s laptop too.

  ‘Were you aware that Anushka worked for Darren as a prostitute, Gabriela?’

  ‘No,’ said Gabriela quietly. Her cheeks burned and Kelly acknowledged her innocence. Teresa Joliffe must have thought she was on to a winner when she chose the quiet foreigner to keep watch, threatening her with withholding her passport. She’d badly miscalculated. Gabriela was far from stupid.

  ‘Thank you, Gabriela. You’re a brave girl. I’ll send an officer to take a statement from you, and this evidence, I am sure, will tell me what happened to your friend Nush.’

  ‘She wasn’t my friend.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘They were horrible girls. I want to go home.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

  Kelly went back downstairs. She left the hotel and walked to her car. She had enough time to visit Jenny Davis to officially inform her of the circumstances surrounding her daughter’s death.

  * * *

  Across the street, three people sat in a car.

  ‘Look. That must be her,’ said Teresa.

  The woman’s demeanour and dress screamed police. She was of average height and slim build and walked with a confident swagger that suggested ‘get out of my fucking way, mere mortals’. She wore a trouser suit topped with an overcoat that looked like cashmere; Marko hadn’t thought abiding by the law paid so well.

  Sasha took photos and Marko watched. The detective was just his type and he was pleasantly surprised. She was strong and had presence, and he could tell that Teresa was instantly jealous. He also smelled her fear; it happened rarely but he knew for sure that she was calculating how to get away from him, and he was damned if he was going to l
et that happen. He watched as the detective walked away and disappeared out of sight. This was the only window they’d have.

  Marko had decided that it was time to turn up the heat and he and Sasha carried pistols. They didn’t come cheap, but were relatively easy to come by, but it meant that there was no going back now. If they had to use them; he could say goodbye to his freedom for life. He had to avoid that at all costs; there was a speed boat arranged and it was on standby at Workington port. But first they needed to take care of the girl.

  The three of them left the car and walked casually into the hotel, like tourists. They rang the reception bell and George came out of the office.

  ‘Afternoon, George,’ Teresa said confidently. George looked behind her at the two men, and something in his expression told Marko he was suspicious.

  The foyer was quiet and Sasha took his chance. He walked behind the desk and grabbed George by the throat, thrusting a gun to his belly. George’s bulk could’ve been a handful had Sasha not come armed. Marko reached over the desk and brought the butt of his own gun down hard on the man’s head. He slumped over and the two men dragged him quickly into the office, then Teresa locked the door, leaving George inside, collapsed on the floor.

  Teresa led the way upstairs and used the master key to unlock Gabriela’s door. It was unbolted. The girl sat up straight on the bed and opened her mouth to scream, but Sasha was on her before a sound could escape.

  ‘You’re coming with us, and this time, no one will save you.’ Marko winked at the girl. She was a little pixie and he could probably carry her with one hand. He showed her the gun and she froze, the fear evident in her eyes.

  Sasha made her stand up and Marko shoved his gun into her back. She had no choice but to do as she was told. They left through the back entrance, with Marko concealing the gun. They saw no one.

  Once in the car, the doors were locked and Marko never took his eyes off the girl in the back seat. Her lip trembled and she fought back tears.