Speechless

by Stephen Puleston

  ‘What is everyone saying?’

  I said it more sharply than I’d intended, sensing my anger developing.

  ‘Forget it, John. I’ll see you tonight.’

  I threw the mobile on the table. Prodding the last of the cereal with my spoon I tipped the coffee cup to one side, disappointed that there was no espresso left. When I realised the time and, knowing I was late, I felt the tension building in my chest.

  * * *

  When I turned the corner by the front entrance of Queen Street police station that morning I almost fell over Kamil. He was carrying a super-size coffee, but his deathly complexion had lifted.

  ‘I am in shit,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I must talk but not here.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Have you found where Maria worked?’

  ‘Why do you want to know where she worked?’

  He looked past me down the street, took a sip of the coffee and grimaced at the hot liquid.

  ‘I can get Polish people to help. But you tell me where she worked so I find people who work same places.’

  I stood and stared at him.

  ‘There is no way I can tell you anything about the inquiry.’

  Kamil pouted, said something about only wanting to help, and set off into town.

  * * *

  The leather sofa was smaller than the one in the Four Seasons. Boyd and I sat waiting for Janet Helm, my mind considering the alternative charges I could use as threats if she didn’t cooperate. Her assistant had grey streaks running through her mass of dark hair that badly needed brushing. And cutting, too. Working for Helm had prematurely aged the girl who was probably no more than thirty-five.

  Eventually, we were called through into Helm’s office. The assistant looked pleased when we left. Helm had a smart office with a modern leather chair and a sleek desk. She had a supercilious look that professional politicians must practise for hours on end before a mirror.

  ‘I need Anna’s contact details,’ I said.

  ‘Tell me about the progress you’re making in the inquiry.’

  ‘We’ve been in touch with our counterparts in Poland through the Polish embassy and our principal suspect is known to them. And they’ve discovered that another suspect we want to interview in connection with the inquiry is back in Poland, so in due course we’ll have officers interview him.’

  I could feel myself getting into the swing of flattering Helm’s ego.

  ‘I must say that the cooperation we’ve had from our Europeans cousins has been very impressive. I’m sure the Welsh government would like to thank the Polish authorities in due course for their help.’

  She nodded and gave a smile, but her eyes were cold, her mind working the angles.

  ‘And the Polish community has been helpful of course, as much as they can. We’ve had officers visiting the shops and the churches.’

  I was surprising myself. Boyd was relaxing by my side.

  ‘But we are worried about Anna and her close association with Maria and we need to talk to her. She’s not been at home and the house is empty. I was wondering if you could tell us where she’s living?’

  A report about Helm’s movements the night before had landed on my desk before we left and I knew that Anna wasn’t staying with her, although I was quite surprised about the age of a male visitor who left Helm’s flat in the early hours.

  ‘What makes you think I would know, Inspector?’

  ‘Do you have a mobile number or contact details for her?’

  ‘I don’t think I could give them to you.’

  ‘Not even if her life was in danger?’

  She paused and her eyes narrowed slightly.

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘She’s created an awful lot of publicity for your campaign and those involved may think that she’s become a danger to them. After all, Maria was killed after Anna met her with Sergeant Pierce and me. And then Maria was Leon’s fiancée and Michal and Leon were good friends. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that someone will pin the blame on Anna.’

  I stood up.

  ‘But I appreciate your predicament. If something does happen to Anna then I’m sure her family will understand your reluctance to help, once they’d heard your side of the argument.’

  I pushed the chair back and turned to leave.

  ‘Just a moment, Inspector.’

  * * *

  I sounded the car horn at least three times at incompetent drivers on my journey into Queen Street. I knew that I’d broken the speed limit and at one of the roundabouts I’d only just been able to stop in time behind a new BMW.

  I took the stairs two at a time up to the Incident Room and by the time I pushed open the doors my pulse was racing, the collar of my shirt was tightening uncomfortably around my neck and I could feel a small bead of sweat on my forehead.

  ‘That was a load of fucking bollocks,’ I said, falling into my chair so hard it careered across the floor.

  ‘Didn’t know you had it in you,’ Boyd said. ‘What next, boss?’

  I didn’t want to say that I had no idea. I was paid to have ideas and make a breakthrough. But sometimes cases don’t get solved and sometimes the bad guys escape justice and sometimes the wrong guys get caught.

  ‘Better find Anna now after all of that.’

  Boyd got up.

  ‘Try the Amnesty office again,’ I said.

  The telephone rang and I picked up the receiver.

  ‘Inspector, call for you about that dead girl.’

  There was a pause before the voice spoke.

  ‘Inspector.’ The voice sounded educated: Penarth not Pontypridd. ‘I hope this won’t waste your time. My son was sailing in the Bay last week and he was almost run over by a yacht that didn’t give way to him. He had the right of way, as he was in his dinghy for the weekly race. It’s a well-established routine.’

  I sat up in my chair and reached for a notepad.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘James French and my son is Aaron. Well, as I said, Inspector, it may be nothing but it was the night before the body of that young woman was found. I was annoyed and at the end of the race we went to the protest officer, but he said there was nothing we could do, except maybe complain to the yacht club. My son went back to school and we left it until he was back last weekend and he mentioned the photographs.’

  ‘What photographs?’ I said, convinced my pulse had missed a beat.

  ‘He took a photograph of the yacht on his mobile.’

  I stood up now. ‘Can I see these photographs?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We can come in when convenient.’

  ‘We’ll come to you,’ I said, before getting his details.

  I picked up the car keys from the desk and threw them at Boyd. ‘You drive.’

  The French family lived in a smart detached house in one of the fashionable parts of Penarth. A silver BMW and a dark-blue Range Rover were parked in front of a garage with two grey automatic doors. Leaves from the sycamore growing in the front lawn cluttered the recently paved drive. The bell echoed behind the heavy front door, but it opened soon enough and a tall man with neatly clipped hair, wearing a navy shirt, appeared and stretched out his hand.

  ‘Inspector Marco,’ French said, his handshake firm.

  We followed him into a large room at the front of the house, carefully laid out with immaculate sofas with bold blue stripes and matching scatter cushions – all very nautical.

  ‘I hope we shan’t waste your time, Inspector.’

  The vowels were rounded and the voice authoritative.

  ‘We sail a lot as a family, as you can probably tell,’ he said, casting an eye on the painting hanging on the wall of a large racing yacht heeling over.

  ‘You mentioned some photographs.’

  Then a teenager came in clutching a smartphone and a large envelope. I guessed it was Aaron, maybe nineteen, tall and thin like his father.
>
  James French was sitting now in one of the chairs and cleared his throat.

  ‘Aaron was sailing the night before they found the body of that poor girl by the barrage. It was the usual mid-week race. Something we do all the time. I was on the club launch and then this yacht was in the Bay. The yacht ignored all the rules of racing and the skipper tore around like a madman.’

  ‘You’ve got some photographs?’ I asked, again moving to the edge of my seat, raising my voice slightly.

  ‘Yes, of course. Aaron, can you show the inspector?’

  Aaron came to sit by my side and moved his fingers over the smooth face of the iPhone. After a few seconds he showed me the images. The faces were indistinct and blurred, but Lech Balinski still looked enormous in sailing gear. A can of beer was being crushed in one hand and alongside him was a young girl, and next to her the smiling face of Frankie Prince.

  My lips were drying and I glanced over at Boyd who was staring down at the smartphone.

  ‘Have you downloaded these?’ Boyd asked.

  Aaron nodded and pulled a photograph from the envelope. ‘I blew them up so that I could complain. It was then that I saw the face of the young girl. It was the same as the picture in the paper.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘Have you found Anna?’

  Trish braked at traffic lights. The seat belt cut into my shoulder. I waited for Boyd to reply.

  ‘No sign, boss.’

  The image of Maria on the yacht was fixed in my mind. When I thought that Dagmara might be next my pulse thundered in my neck.

  ‘I’ve been to Howick Street already and—’

  ‘Where have the uniform lads been?’

  The fucking lights are stuck on red.

  Anna or Dagmara or both might be next so I had to hope that Boyd, Woods or Lawson and the uniforms would find them before Lech did.

  ‘And Dagmara…’ I could feel the tension dragging at my chest. ‘Well, is she there?’ I raised my voice.

  Trish accelerated away from the traffic lights. A car blasted its horn and I glared at the driver before raising my middle finger.

  ‘Nothing, boss. All her things are gone. The place was empty. The lock was broken.’

  My heart missed a beat. I thought about the flowers and the photographs on the cabinet in her room. Trish was taking a wrong turn. I pointed my hand, holding the mobile, towards a junction.

  ‘Down there. It’s much quicker.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, John. I know the way.’

  I shouted. ‘I drive here every day. You’re going the wrong bloody way.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, John, calm down.’

  I put the mobile to my ear and barked at Boyd. ‘Just bloody find them. Ring me on my mobile when you do.’

  ‘I thought you were going to a family party,’ Boyd began.

  ‘Just call me. The mobile will be on.’

  The car cleared a bottleneck of traffic and the tension subsided a couple of notches. At least I didn’t have the throbbing in my chest. I glanced at my watch and already we were late collecting Dean. My mother would be ringing me any minute. We left Cardiff and within a few minutes we were turning into the estate of houses where Dean’s grandmother lived. I saw a new BMW parked on the drive – silver, of course, but no personalised plate: probably a lease car from the company where Jackie’s husband worked.

  I jumped out of the car and jogged up the path to the front door, pushing my arms into my jacket before straightening the tie that Trish had carefully ironed. The door opened without me having to knock and Jackie appeared. The sweet smell of potpourri lingered in the porch and Dean appeared behind her. I smiled.

  ‘Ready?’

  He nodded, but said nothing. I put my hand on his shoulder as we walked to the car. He stopped gazing at the floor when he heard Trish starting the car engine.

  I asked about Queens Park Rangers but Dean sat in the back, not saying much, not saying anything at all really. I gave Trish a nervous glance and she puckered her lips in reassurance.

  ‘What have you been doing today?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing much,’ Dean said, after a delay.

  ‘Have you been out?’

  ‘We went for a McDonald’s at dinner and then I played on Xbox with Da… I mean Justin.’

  The accountant with the BMW was Justin, of course. Right sort of name for an accountant. And he was probably a better father than I’d been or could be. But Dean was calling him ‘Dad’ and Jackie had no right, I thought. The spit in my mouth dried and I drew my tongue over my lips, reminding myself about Lech and wondering how his enormous hands could amputate a tongue. I wanted to turn back and go to Queen Street and direct the search for Dagmara. The tension bore down on my chest again.

  Trish had more success with Dean and he told her about his school and his friends and where he lived. He even asked if she’d like to visit. When we turned into the car park of the hotel I got out and couldn’t suppress the desire to call Boyd any longer. He answered after four rings.

  ‘Where were you?’ I hissed down the mobile, as I walked a short distance away from the car.

  ‘I was in the toilet having a piss, if you must know.’

  ‘OK. OK. Is there any progress?’

  I could hear him draw breath. ‘Nothing, boss.’

  I wanted to shout at him. Scream down the mobile that Dagmara wasn’t safe and that we had to find Anna.

  ‘I’ve got everyone working on it. Place is like a fucking mad house.’

  That was supposed to reassure me, but it only made me realise that I should be at the station, in charge.

  ‘Don’t worry, boss. We’re doing everything we can.’

  ‘I want everyone looking for them and keep me posted as and when you get anything positive.’

  ‘Of course, boss.’

  I killed the call and strode towards the entrance of the hotel. I noticed how cold it was and shivered. Then I saw Dean and Trish standing by the main door. When I was drinking, it was the sort of occasion when the justification for a skin-full came too easily – pressure of work; just one to relax.

  Trish took me by the arm and whispered in my ear. ‘You’ll have to try and switch off tonight.’

  I nodded without conviction. Trish continued, this time louder. ‘Let’s get Dean a drink, shall we?’

  We walked through the entrance lobby, past a tall girl with long blond hair and rings on each finger, standing behind the reception desk. She smiled and said something in a heavy Eastern European accent. When it occurred to me to ask her if she knew where Anna and Dagmara were, I knew it was stupid and time for an orange juice.

  The warmth from the crowded function room hit us and I looked around for my parents. In a corner a disc jockey was setting up his equipment. My mother sat by one of the circular tables – probably, in her opinion, the best table, and one she’d have taken great care in choosing, to be certain it was at the centre of everything.

  She raised a hand and waved us over.

  ‘Dean. This is so lovely.’ She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him towards her. ‘It’s going to be a wonderful night. I thought you might be late,’ she added, giving me a dark glance.

  I saw my father making his way through the guests, carrying a tray of drinks, nodding occasionally and smiling at his friends. Trish had excused herself and was standing by the bar being chatted up by one of Uncle Gino’s relatives. I had been so long, I couldn’t remember his name.

  My mother fussed over the tray my father laid on the table. He set down heavily and took a large swig from the Peroni bottle.

  ‘Held up in traffic?’ he said.

  ‘Yeh. Bit busy at the moment.’

  I thought I heard the mobile in my jacket and dipped my hand into the inside pocket, but the screen was blank.

  ‘I want to introduce Dean to everyone,’ my mother said, emphasising the last word. And she ushered him away towards the table where Uncle Gino was sitting.

  ‘You mother was worried
you were going to be late,’ my father said, once she was out of earshot. ‘You should remember that these things are important to her. Family and all that it means.’

  I opened my mouth slightly, but anything I’d say would have sounded wrong. I furrowed my brow instead.

  ‘The least you could do is be here on time.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But the pace of things in the station is frantic at the moment.’

  I wanted to tell him all about the case. Why I couldn’t tell when I was going to finish. Why it was so hard to be on time.

  ‘Haven’t you got a sergeant or someone who can do the spade work?’

  ‘Yes. But…’

  ‘You’re the wrong side of thirty-five and you never see your son and your girlfriend wants to dump you.’

  ‘No she doesn’t,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘Well she bloody well should, the way you treat her.’

  Very clever.

  ‘You’ll reach forty-five and realise that you’ve lost something you can’t get back. Maybe you should have a holiday with your mother’s family in Lucca.’

  Trish arrived back with some drinks. My father stood up and kissed her, then sat down. I squeezed her arm and she gave me an inquisitive smile before handing me a glass of orange juice mixed with sparkling water.

  ‘They’ve delayed serving the meal,’ my father said, without enthusiasm.

  I realised then that the staff had been waiting for me and Trish and Dean to arrive. I searched unsuccessfully for the accusing stares. I watched my mother with Dean and Uncle Gino until the waiters came round with plates of soup and then she threaded past them and sat down.

  ‘There are so many people you need to speak to,’ she said, making it sound like a politician at an election rally.

  I didn’t get time to reply as a waiter leant over my shoulder and placed a bowl on the table in front of me. The waiters looked Eastern European too, and my mind went back immediately to thinking about Anna and Dagmara. The soup was a thick mass of vegetables and bits of pasta passing for minestrone. I spooned on some parmesan but the soup was still hot, so I dipped my hand again into my jacket which was hanging on the chair behind me and found my mobile. I almost cursed out loud when I saw the missed call. I pushed back the chair and walked out to the foyer.