by Frank Smith
Paget wasn’t quite sure how Alcott would take what he was about to say, but he pressed on. ‘What I would like to do is tell you what happened off the record – at least for now – because, while the main thrust of the operation was successful, I’m not at all happy about the way evidence was destroyed, and where that leaves us regarding murders that took place on our patch.’
Alcott drew deeply on his cigarette, then looked at his watch. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, ‘but be quick about it because I can’t put Brock off much longer.’
‘I’ll try to be brief,’ Paget told him, but it was almost twenty minutes later when he finally sat back and said, ‘And that’s about it. As far as I can see, we’ve been left with an impossible situation as far as prosecution is concerned.’
Alcott had remained silent throughout Paget’s monologue, but now he sat back in his chair and said, ‘You don’t look as if you’ve slept at all. What time did you get home?’
‘Somewhere between three and four this morning, and no, I didn’t get much sleep. Too much to think about, especially the killings and the plight of those women and children.’
‘Difficult to see things clearly under those conditions,’ Alcott said. ‘As for Bardici, I thought Superintendent Trowbridge made it very clear at the beginning that if the fellow could be persuaded to cooperate in breaking up the organization, the benefits would – at least in their estimation – far outweigh putting the man on trial for the killing of Newman and Doyle, even assuming we could find enough evidence to make the charge stick. Fletcher might have told us something if they hadn’t got to him first, and now that Slater’s dead, I very much doubt if you could get enough evidence to bring Bardici to trial anyway.’
‘There were a number of others arrested last night,’ Paget pointed out. ‘Some of those people must have known what was going on.’
Alcott shook his head impatiently. ‘Even if they did,’ he said, ‘they know they would be dead within a week if they testified against him, and without eyewitness testimony we have nothing. CPS certainly wouldn’t touch it.’
‘So, apart from anything else, what do I tell Emma Baker?’
Alcott shrugged. ‘You can tell her that two people we believe were involved in the death of Newman and Doyle are now dead. In fact, you can tell her if it hadn’t been for Newman poking around the Roper farm, we might never have known that it was being used as a staging point for smuggling people into the country. You could even say he played a part in saving many young women and children from a life of slavery. As I recall, Trowbridge told us that Newman was buried somewhere on the farm, so we find out where, then dig him up and give him a decent burial. As for Doyle . . .’
But Paget was shaking his head. ‘That’s not right,’ he protested. ‘I think she deserves a better explanation that that!’
‘Do you?’ Alcott said as he rose to his feet. ‘What do you suggest? The truth?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Paget, but that’s not on, and you know it. Apart from that, I suppose you can tell her whatever you like, but if I were in her shoes I think I would prefer to be told that some good has come out of the lad’s death, rather than be told that he came very close to buggering up a long and costly investigation, and sealing the fate of all those in captivity.’
Thirty-One
The media didn’t get hold of the story until late Monday afternoon, when the Minister for Immigration rose in the House to announce, no doubt with some relief, since he’d been under attack for months on the government’s immigration policy, that more than forty people believed to be involved in smuggling women and children into the country for illicit purposes had been arrested. Raids on their homes and business premises, he said, had produced evidence of their involvement with a vast network in Eastern Europe as well as several other countries, and it was anticipated that more arrests would be made in the coming days. He went on to say his ministry was working closely with Europol and other agencies and NGOs throughout those countries, where ‘similar raids are taking place even as I am speaking to you now’.
The minister spoke for some twelve minutes on the subject, ending with the hope that this would clearly demonstrate his government’s grave concern and commitment to stopping the flow of illegal immigrants into the United Kingdom.
It wasn’t often that Paget had a good word to say about Westminster or for the role politics played when it came to common-sense policing, but in this case he was grateful for anything that would shift the spotlight to London.
Despite persistent questions from the media, no details were given regarding the specific number of illegal entrants who were now in protective custody, which led to some creative speculation, especially in the tabloids. Nothing was said about the farm, nor was there so much as a mention that anyone had died. Clearly, Trowbridge and his masters were controlling the information being released, not only to the media, but probably to the minister himself.
The RangerContinental that had brought the women up from the south, had been followed as far as Wrexham, where the driver had stopped to spend the night, and he was arrested Sunday morning when he was about to leave. Roper and his wife were arrested when they returned to the farm on Sunday morning after spending the night in a hotel in Ludlow. When asked how he had managed to leave the farm unobserved, Roper told them that the switch had been made Saturday afternoon, when Kellerman had arrived dressed as a workman in a Crawley’s van.
‘Paranoid, he was,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Scared to death that someone might be watching. Had me switch clothes with him so it was me who drove the van away. He even had the wife creep out of the house and into the van behind a sheet of plywood we carried out between us. I mean there’s times we don’t see anybody out there for days, so who’d be watching us?’
Clearly, the penny hadn’t yet dropped for Roper.
‘Don’t know anything about torture and killings,’ he’d protested. ‘What they did in that barn was nothing to do with me after I rented it out. All this bloke told me was that they wanted it for meetings every now and again, and I wasn’t to go near the place. The money was good, so I did what he wanted.’
Mark Newman’s body was found and lifted from a shallow grave behind the barn. Starkie did the autopsy and recorded death by strangulation after being tortured.
The funeral was held the following week in the village church in Whitcott Lacey. Newman’s parents were contacted, but only his mother made the journey from Plymouth to identify the body of her son and attend the funeral. She was a small, pale, wisp of a woman, who seemed to be incapable of making a decision about anything, and it was Emma Baker who finally took charge of the funeral arrangements.
‘Mark never attended church while he was staying with us,’ she told Paget, ‘but I think he would have liked a Christian burial.’
Mark’s father did not attend.
‘The business, you know,’ Mrs Newman said vaguely when Paget asked.
Tom Foxworthy was there, as was Sylvia Tyler, together with a handful of villagers for whom Newman had worked at one time or another, but it was a small gathering.
Paget and Tregalles remained in the background during the short service, and were about to slip away when Emma stopped them as they left the church.
‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, ‘and thank you for taking me seriously when I first reported Mark missing. Such a waste of a young life, but at least, as Uncle Bob explained, it was your search for Mark that set off the investigation into whatever it was that was going on at the farm, so in a way he didn’t die for nothing.’ She frowned as she looked off into the distance. ‘He wouldn’t tell me exactly what was going on there,’ she said slowly. ‘He said something rather vague about an ongoing investigation, which I took to mean he wasn’t going to tell me anything more.’ She shifted her gaze to Paget. ‘I don’t suppose you . . .?’
He smiled sadly and shook his head. ‘I wish I could,’ he said gently, ‘but like your uncle, I’m not at liberty to discuss it. Sorry, Emma.’
So that was now the official version, Paget thought sadly. And yet, watching Emma’s face, perhaps it was for the best after all.
Later that night, with the day’s events still on his mind, he and Grace talked about it at length, and it was still on his mind when they went to bed.
‘I’m supposed to ignore the fact that people were killed out there at the farm,’ he said as they got into bed. ‘Murdered in cold blood, and whether the killing was justified or not, it’s not up to us to decide. And I’m supposed to ignore the fact that evidence was deliberately destroyed.
‘No one will be charged with the killings. Bardici will never stand trial for those murders; in fact he may not even do any time for trafficking or anything else if he cooperates and tells them everything he knows about the network. And that sort of trade-off really concerns me.’
‘But they can’t just let him go,’ said Grace.
‘Oh, he’ll probably be charged with something and do some time just to make it look good, but I’ll lay odds it won’t amount to much. I’m sure it’s all arranged. I’ve tried to talk to Ben about it, but it’s a done deal and he won’t even take my calls.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Grace gently, ‘you told me yourself that the chances of getting a conviction against Bardici are almost nil. You have no witnesses who are prepared to testify, no evidence connecting him to the murders, except, perhaps for the word of Trowbridge’s undercover man, and he’s not likely to put his hand up, is he? I hate to say this, love, but I don’t think the CPS would even look at it, let alone prosecute.’
‘Oh, I know you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘In fact that’s exactly what Alcott said, but it still rankles. Once you start making deals with the likes of Bardici, where does it stop?’ He sighed heavily as he turned out the light and slid down in bed.
‘I know how frustrated you must be, Neil,’ Grace said softly, ‘but you can’t expect to win every time.’
‘Not with people like Trowbridge and Bell about,’ he muttered as he turned to face her. ‘And I’d still like to?’
‘Enough!’ Grace snaked an arm around him and pulled him to her. ‘It’s over, so let it go and get some sleep! Don’t forget you said you wanted to be in court for the case against Bernie Green first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh, God! I’d forgotten about that,’ he said. He was about to roll over, but the pressure of her body against his own stopped him. ‘But if you think I can go off to sleep while you are doing things like that to me,’ he said, ‘you’ve got another think coming, Grace Lovett.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Grace murmured softly, nestling her head against his chest. ‘Took you so long to get around to it, I was beginning to think you’d gone off me.’
There were very few people in court. Bernie’s hair was neatly combed, and he was dressed in his best suit, white shirt and tie – not that it would have any influence on the outcome, but there was always the faint hope that it might. Paget looked around for Bernie’s wife, and almost failed to recognize the smartly dressed woman sitting by herself until she turned her head his way.
‘Not a bad looking bird when she’s all dressed up, is she?’ Tregalles murmured. ‘Last time I saw Shirley Green, she had curlers in her hair and she looked a good ten years older than she does now. Amazing what a bit of paint, some high heels and a good bra will do for a woman.’
There were no surprises. Guilty as charged. Six months, which meant he’d be out in four. Bernie and his wife were allowed to have a few brief words before he was led away, but as Shirley turned to leave, she caught sight of Paget, and a slow smile crossed her face as she changed course and came toward him.
She probably wanted to have a go at him for putting her husband away, thought Paget. It had happened to him a number of times during his career, and yet there was something decidedly odd about the way the woman was looking at him. One eyebrow was slightly raised as if she were trying to convey some sort of message to him as she approached.
‘I reckon she fancies you,’ Tregalles said under his breath, but loud enough for Paget to hear. ‘Either that or she’s got herself a toy boy while her old man’s away, and she’s feeling grateful. I’d watch myself if I were you, boss.’
The two men started to move toward the door, but Shirley Green moved swiftly to intercept them before they reached it. Both men watched her closely as she approached. Relatives and even friends had been known to throw acid in the faces of the police when a verdict went against someone close to them, but Shirley’s hands were empty.
She moved closer, glancing around as if to make absolutely sure that no one else was within earshot before she spoke, and when she did it was to Tregalles.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Sergeant,’ she said apologetically, ‘but I’d like a word with Mr Paget. It’s nothing personal against you,’ she added hastily, ‘it’s just . . . it’s just a bit private, if you don’t mind?’
Tregalles remained where he was until Paget nodded and said, ‘It’s all right, Sergeant. I don’t think Mrs Green intends to harm me.’
Tregalles gave a grudging nod and moved away.
The woman watched him go, but remained silent until she was satisfied that Tregalles was out of earshot. And when she did speak, it was in a voice so low that Paget had to lean closer to hear what she was saying.
‘I know we’ve had our differences in the past,’ she said, ‘but fair’s fair, and I promised myself I’d thank you for what you did if I ever got the chance. And believe me, Mr Paget, you can trust me to keep a secret. I’ll never breathe a word to anyone else, and I’ll swear to that. You’ll never know how happy it made me when I heard. I can still hardly believe it.’
‘You’re happy that Bernie’s been convicted?’
The woman stared at him blankly for a second, then grinned in a conspiratorial way as she leaned closer. ‘For a minute there I thought you were serious,’ she said with a chuckle, ‘but you’re having me on, aren’t you? No, of course I didn’t mean Bernie. I meant about Gerry. That’s why I got the inspector to go away, because Gerry said it was only the top ones who knew. I know Gerry said I wasn’t to say anything, but it’s not as if you don’t know, is it? And Gerry says he’s doing all right where he is, fixed up with a job and all. I’m sure he’s learned his lesson this time, so you won’t be having any more trouble with him. Bernie doesn’t know, and I shan’t tell him, and I wouldn’t want him to know I’d talked to you. But like I said, I thought it was only fair to say thanks and tell you what a relief it was to find out that my brother is alive and well.’
Epilogue
Friday, May 9
It had been a long day, and an even longer week, and Paget was looking forward to a weekend away with Grace. So he was less than pleased when he left the building to see the silver Jag sitting next to his own car in the car park.
Trowbridge was behind the wheel. ‘I was beginning to think you slept here,’ he said laconically through the open window. ‘Get in. We need to talk.’
‘Really?’ said Paget coldly. ‘Perhaps no one in your office thought to tell you I’ve been trying to do that for the past month. What’s so important now?’
‘I’ve been away,’ Trowbridge said. ‘In Europe. But that’s beside the point, so stop being so bloody prickly and get in. This is something you need to hear.’
Paget moved around to the passenger’s side of the car and got in. Trowbridge pressed a button and his window closed. ‘Bardici is dead,’ he said tersely. ‘Killed last night in prison where he and the others were awaiting trial on charges of trafficking. Stabbed eleven times, yet no one saw a thing.’
Paget eyed Trowbridge suspiciously. The superintendent sighed as he pulled an envelope from his
pocket and slid out half a dozen pictures. ‘You saw the man when he was taken into custody,’ he said. ‘What does that look like to you?’
Paget looked at the pictures. The first three pictures, taken from different angles, showed Bardici sprawled on the floor, head thrown back, arms flung wide, and there was blood all over his clothing. It could have been faked, but the slash across the throat and the expression on Bardici’s face had to be real. The next two pictures showed him naked on a slab. The wounds were clearly visible. Paget looked closer. ‘Two weapons?’ he hazarded.
Trowbridge nodded. ‘One thin, almost a stiletto-type knife, and one with a wider blade. Two people, according to the pathologist, yet a search failed to turn up either weapon.’
Paget handed the pictures back. ‘And no one saw a thing? What about the guards?’
Trowbridge shrugged. ‘It seems a fight broke out at the other end of the block, and they were all down there when it happened. At least that’s their story.’
‘So Bardici is dead,’ said Paget. ‘Fine, I accept that. Now tell me about Fletcher.’
‘What about Fletcher? He was killed when—’
‘He wasn’t killed and you know it!’ Paget broke in. ‘Gerry Fletcher is alive – or he was when he contacted his sister – which means that his “death” was orchestrated by someone on the inside; someone who was working for you. My guess is the Australian, Slater, because that’s who was watching Bernie Green’s house, according to Fletcher’s sister.’
Trowbridge’s grimace was as close to an acknowledgement of guilt as Paget was ever likely to see. ‘Stupid of Fletcher to get in touch with his sister,’ he said.
He leaned his head back against the leather with a sigh of resignation. ‘Fletcher botched the job of getting rid of Newman’s van, and when it became known that the police – you – were looking for him, they wanted him dead. Slater was trying to keep him from getting killed, so he staked out his sister’s place, because he knew Fletcher had nowhere else to run. He caught Fletcher trying to sneak out that night, but naturally Fletcher thought Slater meant to kill him, so Slater had to put him out of commission. But he needed to leave some of Fletcher’s blood at the scene to convince your lot and everybody else that he was dead, so he tore Fletcher’s earring out and took half the lobe off with it. Poor sod had to have it sewn up later, but it still looks as if someone chewed it off. Bled like a stuck pig – you know how ears bleed – so there was plenty of blood left at the scene for you to find. He bundled Fletcher into the boot of his car and brought him back to a safe house, then took the earring to show Bardici that he’d done the job.’