Eventually I caught up with Boyd and we found Frankie Prince’s yacht. I knelt down and peered through one of the cabin windows at bottles of champagne and cans of beer standing on top of a table.
‘Nobody here,’ Boyd said.
‘Let’s get in,’ I said.
‘Don’t be crazy, sir. You haven’t got any reason to break in to the yacht. They’d throw the book at you.’
I wanted so badly to tear the cover off the boat, but Boyd was right. I’d get a warrant and do it properly. Until then we had two more places to visit in our search for Frankie Prince.
* * *
The art gallery his wife ran was the last place I’d expect to find him. There was a large sign hanging on the wall above the window with the word UN printed in large gold letters.
‘It’s Welsh for one,’ Boyd explained, reminding me of long forgotten Welsh lessons.
‘Is there going to be a two or three?’
‘Looks closed,’ Boyd continued, as we pushed open the door.
The first couple of exposed floorboards squeaked noisily. A tall girl training to be a stick insect stood up from behind a desk. Her smile was tentative; she must have realised our bank balances wouldn’t stretch to buying art.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said, her vowels rounded, her accent crisp and clean.
I flashed my warrant card. ‘Is Mrs Prince here?’
‘No, but she’s expected back very shortly.’
‘Mind if we look around?’
Boyd was already admiring a painting of a man crouching with his head in his hands, in what looked like a ruin in ancient Greece. Beside it were two others, both similar. Then on another wall was a canvas that was a mass of different colours with brushstrokes in no apparent order. I tilted my head first one way then another.
‘Looks like a load of bollocks to me,’ I said.
Boyd stepped back – forcing an intelligent looking frown. ‘Modern art does take time to appreciate fully.’
The gallery was a long building divided into different areas, all hung with various canvasses. A small turtle sat on top of a pillar of roughly sawn timber.
‘It’s to represent the importance of time.’ The tall girl stood beside me now.
‘Of course,’ I said, turning to look at the door on the opposite wall.
‘What’s through there?’
‘Offices and the marketing suite.’
I walked over and pressed the handle.
‘Shouldn’t you have a warrant or something?’ the girl said.
I ignored her and walked through into a small hallway that led to a flight of shallow stairs that I climbed two at a time. At the top there was a large room laid out with wine glasses and cartons of soft drinks. I walked around the room and glanced at the photographs of various celebrities, mouths stretched into cheesy grins for the camera. Photographs of various rugby players, government ministers and a couple of the Welsh millionaires, whose pictures had been in the Sunday Times rich list, covered one wall. I stopped by one photograph. A group of people were being served drinks by an attractive girl in a white uniform. Even I could recognise Maria.
I thought she must be staff. Then, I thought, there must be a staff room.
‘When’s the party?’ I said to the girl who’d followed us upstairs, her face covered with a frown.
‘You should be waiting downstairs.’
I ignored her and walked over to the door at the far end, guessing there were stairs to the second floor and hoping that Boyd would keep her talking. At the top there was a kitchen; it was neat and tidy – the air smelt faintly of bleach. There were two more rooms, both used as offices, and a desk with a computer in one of them. In the final room there were staff lockers, some open with various uniforms and clothes hanging inside. My mind raced and my pulse thumped in my neck. I didn’t have warrant and any evidence would be inadmissible but I had a killer to find. I hoped that Boyd could keep her occupied downstairs.
I worked quickly through the first lockers, being careful not to disturb anything that might suggest I’d been rifling through the possessions. Three more were locked and I tried forcing the lock with my credit card without success. I looked around for something to prise the door from the lock.
‘Are you all right? Mrs Prince should be here any minute,’ the girl shouted up the stairs, before I heard Boyd asking her something about the latest exhibition.
‘In the toilet,’ I shouted back.
I opened every drawer and cupboard in the kitchen, looking for a knife or a spoon I could use to force open the doors, without thinking about the noise it might make. Then I walked as softly as I could into the office and opened the drawers in the desk.
My pulse was racing now and I was running short of time.
The first two drawers were full of pencils and felt pens. I found a letter opener in the second, but its metal was soft and it would fold in half under pressure. It was in the bottom drawer that I found the keys and relief surged through my body as I opened the three lockers in turn. On the inner face of the second door was a little notice on which was written ‘Maria and Leon’. At the bottom, tucked neatly under a pile of clothes, I found a small digital camera which I picked up and slipped into my jacket pocket.
Hidden where no one would think of looking.
I heard a new voice downstairs. I didn’t bother with the third locker and I quickly retraced my steps, before flushing the toilet.
As I was standing on the top step I could hear Boyd saying something about, Inspector Marco not being well and having a touch of food poisoning.
I made as much noise as I could walking down the stairs and when I entered the first floor Lucy Prince stood next to Boyd.
‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Detective Inspector Marco,’ I said, holding out a hand.
‘Do you have a warrant?’
‘I’m sorry. I had to use the toilet. Bit of an emergency really. I think I ate something at lunch that didn’t agree with me.’
Lucy Prince was wearing an expensive suit that flattered her figure and high heels – not too high, just enough to make her legs look sensational. Her hair was immaculate and the perfume was delicate and hung in the air.
‘And what do you want?’ She didn’t conceal the hard edge to her voice.
‘We were hoping you could help us find your husband.’
She moved her weight from one leg to another – there wasn’t a lot of weight to move and she had hard, determined eyes: obviously a woman accustomed to having her own way.
‘Why do you want to speak to him?’
‘Routine.’
Boyd added, ‘It’s part of the investigation into the murder of one of his employees.’
‘He’ll be at the club. Where he always is. Working.’
‘He’s not there.’
I caught a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.
‘And we’ve tried the yacht – just on the off chance.’
Now I had my hands on my hips and waited.
‘Then he must be on business somewhere. Jim will know where Frankie will be.’
I nodded. ‘I understand Frankie will be here later for the reception. What time does it start?’
* * *
Boyd started the car and drove back towards Queen Street, but there was something nagging at the back of my mind. I stared out of the window, not saying anything. There were youngsters milling around shop doorways and the lights of an Aston Martin dealership shone brightly. My mobile buzzed and after reading the message I felt the first glimmer that I might get ahead of Frankie Prince and Lech Balinski.
‘We need to make a detour,’ I said.
‘Where to?’ Boyd asked without emotion; he was getting accustomed to unexplained actions.
‘Grangetown.’
‘Anywhere in particular?’
I rested my head against the restraint and shut my eyes. ‘The priest wants to see us.’
I didn’t sleep, despite the burning sensation behind my
eyes. The car jolted at traffic lights and I heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance. Fifteen minutes must have passed before Boyd slowed the car to a halt and parked outside the imposing doors of the church.
After a couple of rings, an anxious-looking woman in her fifties opened the presbytery door.
‘Father Podolak wants to see us.’
She didn’t say anything or move her head. I heard a raised voice behind her. ‘Come in. Come in.’
She eased open the door and Boyd and I walked in and over towards the staircase. Podolak stood on the half-landing and we exchanged greetings.
‘What do you want?’ I said, following him up the narrow flight of stairs to the first floor.
‘Pietrek,’ he said, once we were in the study where we had sat at our first meeting.
‘Can I speak with him?’
Boyd turned sharply and stared at me.
The priest hesitated for a moment. ‘How did you…?’
‘Police work,’ I replied.
‘You are right of course. He is here. Pietrek is very afraid for his life. He has seen much bad things.’ He stood up and left the room, returning after a couple of minutes, Pietrek behind him.
His head was covered with the bristles of a few days’ growth and he had large hands with long fingers. He spoke slowly at first.
‘Father Podolak say I talk to you.’ His coarse accent was heavy on my ears after the fluent tone of Podolak’s. He looked at the father for reassurance.
‘What can you tell us?’ I said, as Boyd reached for his notepad.
‘Night of Michal’s murder I heard them talking.’
‘Who?’
‘Frankie Prince and Lech. They talk much. They shout and swear and…’
‘Argue?’
‘Yes. Much. They say that Michal and Leon have to be dead.’
Another ten minutes passed as Boyd scribbled down the details of the conversation Pietrek had heard. Lech had been telling Frankie how Michal had screamed out when his tongue had been cut out. Then Pietrek stopped and drew breath before clasping and unclasping his fingers.
‘And I see them take Gerek.’
I moved forward in my chair. An overheard conversation wasn’t evidence. We needed an eyewitness account.
‘I meet Gerek one night. He no turn up. I go to Polish club and he no there. So I go to flat where he have girlfriend and then outside there was big car with fat men.’ He spread out his arms in an exaggerated gesture. ‘And then Lech come out with Gerek.’ Pietrek looked away, paused, but his voice was breaking when he continued. ‘I watch them kick him down onto ground and then they take him to empty factory in docks.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I follow him and see them.’
‘Gerek much afraid.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police then?’ I said.
He put his head into his hands and began crying softly.
Father Podolak answered for him. ‘He is very afraid for his life and he blame himself for Gerek’s death.’
I nodded. Boyd had stopped making notes.
‘Can you show us the factory?’
Pietrek nodded.
* * *
By late in the evening sitting in the car had caused a cramp in my buttock to become a dull ache that had spread throughout my lower back. We watched the factory building as we waited for the Armed Response Unit to arrive, but nothing moved and the place was dark and lifeless.
The Scientific Support Vehicle was parked out of sight, waiting for us to clear the building. Boyd sat next to me chewing his lip. I could just make out the car driven by Woods parked in the shadows, waiting for the signal.
Once the ARU team arrived, things moved quickly. An enormous pair of pliers prised open the chain securing the door and we poured into the building. It took us an hour to find the room in the basement where the floor was tinted red and there had been signs of activity.
I left the CSIs to their work and stood outside in the cold of the autumn evening, smoking. Boyd shivered by my side.
‘I want to start smoking on nights like this,’ he said.
‘It’ll bugger up your sperm, probably.’
I threw the last of the cigarette onto the gravel by my feet and went home.
Chapter 34
I was back in the office before breakfast the following morning, already having spoken to Alvine Dix, who sounded fresh and alert even after a night working in the factory. Boyd was carrying one of those tall coffee mugs that I was convinced had more froth than coffee and he sat down in the plastic chair in my room.
‘CSIs turn anything up?’ he asked.
‘Lots of blood and skin.’
He seemed to lose interest in his coffee.
‘And I guess Frankie didn’t show up last night?’
‘Inspired guess,’ I said. ‘At least the uniformed lads we sent there enjoyed the canapés.’
I’d placed the camera in the middle of the desk. I sat back, wondering what we could do as Boyd cleared his throat.
‘You’ll never be able to use it.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘It’s inadmissible and you’ve broken the law obtaining it.’
Boyd was right, of course.
There were images of middle-aged men at a party, enjoying themselves with girls as young as fifteen, maybe younger, unaware that they’d been photographed. I recognised Frankie Prince, who was shaking hands and featuring in most of the shots. I’d find out the names of the others soon enough but I did recognise one face immediately and I wondered what Mrs Bates would make of her Wing Commander husband attending private parties without her.
‘This is why Maria was killed,’ I said. ‘She must have been using these photographs to blackmail Frankie for her family’s freedom.’
Boyd nodded slowly without saying anything. There wasn’t much either of us could say.
‘Where has Frankie gone?’ Boyd said.
‘Lucy wasn’t expecting Frankie to be away from the club and White was scared. Have you heard from the lads outside his house?’
Unmarked police cars had been sitting outside the detached house where Frankie lived. Uniform officers were visiting all the properties owned by Frankie, so it was only going to be a matter of time until we caught up with him.
Boyd shook his head. ‘Nothing. Yet.’
There was noise from the Incident Room as Woods and Lawson appeared in the doorway of my room.
‘We found Anna, boss,’ Joe said, leaning against the door, sweat patches evident under his arms. ‘Tracked her down to a flat in Whitchurch eventually. The place was stinking.’
‘Really?’
‘Dope and dirty clothes everywhere – all over the floor and every surface you could think of. There were more scarves than a charity shop.’
‘So has she seen Dagmara?’
‘Nope. Apparently Helm wants Dagmara to take part in a press conference.’
‘For fuck’s sake. What are these politicians going to do next?’
Woods cleared his throat, ‘There was call earlier, sir, from Bristol airport. Kamil was on a flight to Poland yesterday.’
I didn’t have time to respond before the telephone rang on my desk.
‘Someone foreign for you,’ the receptionist said.
‘DI Marco.’
‘John, it’s me,’ Dagmara said, as my pulse quickened. ‘I need to see you urgently.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Warsaw.’
* * *
I had a couple of hours to spare but I sped down the motorway to Bristol airport, just in case. After checking-in I walked around the concourse, bought a bacon sandwich and coffee and sat down, waiting for the flight.
Three hours later the plane was approaching Warsaw, but my neck was stiff after I’d slept in awkward position. Below us the flat industrial city sprawled out for miles without a hill or river in sight. I’d expected an old building, built in the Soviet era, but the terminal was a modern glass and s
teel construction with a vast expanse of roof. Rain drilled its way past the window of the plane and we landed with a thud and taxied.
I read Dagmara’s instructions and I found the taxi rank without difficulty. A driver with a cigarette hanging from his lips nodded when I showed him the address.
‘English?’ he said, as he pulled onto the motorway and accelerated towards the city.
‘Cardiff. In Wales.’
‘Lots of Polish people in England,’ he said. ‘Money is better in England. Money shit in Poland.’
The driver had a cough that came from deep inside his chest.
‘You come on business?’ he said, once he’d stopped coughing.
I fumbled through my jacket for the cigarettes. I’d had one before arriving at Bristol airport and my second was overdue.
‘I’m only staying a day.’
‘I show you place for good time.’ He looked in the mirror for my reaction. ‘I take you there any time.’
‘Sure thing,’ I said, without conviction.
We passed rows of tall buildings, some with window boxes and others with towers, and bays hanging from their fronts. The tram cables strung over every street crackled and sparked when the trams passed. And my driver kept up a commentary on the city of Warsaw, telling me about the Old Town and the palaces and the heroes of the Second World War. But I was tired and hungry and I needed a shower.
We pulled up outside a large, old building and he pointed at the door. As I paid him he pressed a card into my hand, reminding me that he could take me to the best night clubs.
After pushing open the heavy door I saw a lift at the end of the hall. I’d memorised the instructions and found the right apartment at the end of the landing, panelled with dark, old wood. I couldn’t place the smell until I remembered the odour of cabbage and sausage in Howick Street.
Dagmara opened the door before the bell had finished its chiming. She threw her hands around my neck and kissed me.
‘Thank God you come.’
Suddenly she moved away from me, walked over to the window, and drew back the curtain slightly.
‘Were you followed?’ she asked, before moving to an old wooden-framed sofa and sitting down.
‘What do you mean, Dagmara? What’s this all about?’
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