When Anthony Rathe Investigates
Page 23
Rathe’s heart seemed to slump in his breast and he felt a surge of nausea pass through him. “Where?”
Cook was shaking his head. “She’s alive, just. There was a raid on a place near Kings Cross. She was in there as a worker. That much junk in her she doesn’t know who she is.”
Rathe ran a hand down his face. “Dear God. But the doctors think… ?”
Cook nodded. “In time, she’ll recover. In a long time.”
Rathe ran his hand through his hair. “Eliza Graham will be relieved, no matter what.”
“Of course.” Cook closed his eyes against the thought.
“When will Lyndsey be able to talk?” asked Rathe.
“Once she’s clean,” said Cook. Then, with a sigh, he added, “What she remembers and what use it’ll be, I can’t say.”
“At least she’s alive.”
The silence which followed was so intense that Rathe’s instincts were aroused at once. He threw a glance at Cook and saw that the inspector’s pale cheeks had turned a sickening shade of alabaster.
“Cook?”
“There’s more news. A body was found in Leeds, a young woman. Known to be a prostitute under the control of one of the main criminal families up there. This gang keep their girls under control, know what I mean?”
“With drugs?”
“Just enough to keep them addicted and compliant. These girls are reserved for the high flyers: businessmen, visiting diplomats, politicians. She died after a nasty beating. Some pretty horrible wounds to her back and arse, probably from the buckle end of a belt. Signs she was tied at the ankles and wrists. That’s just the start of what he did to her.”
“Rape?”
“Everywhere you can imagine.” Cook cleared his throat, as though to dislodge some of the unpleasantness of the world from his throat. “It got out of hand, so whoever her punter was phoned the gang and they cleared it up.”
Rathe was looking down at his feet. “Who was the girl?”
“Leeds police have got the man who did it, but he’s naming no names,” said Cook, as though he hadn’t heard the question.
“Who’s the girl, Cook?” pressed Rathe.
“We’d sent photos of all our missing girls to forces up and down the country,” Cook explained at last. “You never know what another force might come up with. We got the call this morning. This girl in Leeds… ”
Rathe looked at him. “Kirsty Villiers?”
Cook’s silence answered the question better than any words. For a moment, it seemed to take Rathe by surprise. His eyes flickered and his lips twitched, as though he could not bring himself to accept that he was standing by the grave of a dead man whilst hearing the news of a dead girl. He looked around at the stone markers of people who had lived and died and it began to seem to him that he was surrounded by death, as though death was part of his own being, a morbid thread of the fabric of his own life, and nothing he could do would ever allow him to escape death, because nobody could ever run away from themselves. He was barely aware of Cook’s hand on his shoulder but that touch of friendly support was enough to bring Rathe’s consciousness back out of itself and return him to the reality of what his mind had been forced to process.
“There’s no doubt?” he asked.
“None. I’m sorry.”
“What about evidence against Graham?” asked Rathe, his voice suddenly brusque and professional. “Any progress there?”
Cook nodded. “We’ve got his car on CCTV in the vicinity of both Gilchrist’s office and Alice’s house.”
Rathe was shaking his head. “But no physical evidence to get him for either murder?”
“Not yet.”
Rathe looked down at Kevin Marsden’s grave once more, his eyes narrowing and then closing. Cook knew better than to interrupt, so he kept quiet and let his eyes wander aimlessly around the churchyard. At last, Rathe took a step back from the grave and began to walk.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“We’ll keep looking, Rathe,” said Cook. “I promise.”
Rathe nodded, although he wondered now whether it mattered any more. It was impossible for him not to accept that Elliott Graham had sold his step-daughter into prostitution to keep her quiet about his illegal activities, just as it was an absolute in his mind that Graham had murdered both Gilchrist and Alice. All that was unknown as far as Rathe was concerned was how many of the girls still classed as missing in London and beyond had been targeted and sold by Graham and how many of them were dead, like Kirsty, or still barely alive like Lyndsey. The thought was almost too much for him to contemplate and, for a brief second, he felt as though he would vomit.
He forced himself to think of something better, something which proved there was still goodness somewhere in the world. Almost at once, Alice’s face appeared in his mind’s eye and he felt his heart drag itself towards the light once more. The world was dark, Rathe knew that, and any chance of redemption had to be seized and kept close for as long as possible. If he could do nothing to stop the violence or the death, he must try other things to balance the scales. Sonia and Terence Villiers had spent years not knowing what had happened to their youngest child. Despite the tragedy of the truth, they could now at least know what that truth was. If he could do nothing else, Rathe could give them that certainty, however painful. And Alice could be reunited with her sister. He was not religious, nor was he given to sentiment, but Rathe could believe that amid the darkness and the horror, even those small glimpses of hope and honesty had to count for something.
They were at the gates to the churchyard when Cook spoke. “I don’t suppose you fancy a beer, do you?”
“I may well do. But not right now – later perhaps. I’ll ring you. There’s just something I have to do first.”
“Such as?” asked Cook.
“I want to go and see Sonia and Terence Villiers.”
Cook shook his head. “Not a chance. If it was my case, no problem, but it’s not. It’s a Leeds case and the boys from up there will want to tell the parents. I can’t let you do it.”
“Make a phone call.”
“I can’t.”
“I’ll buy the first two, no, three drinks later. I promise.”
Cook growled angrily, but he took out his mobile in any case, his grubby fingers struggling to handle the device before he made the call. For himself, Rathe looked back towards the cemetery and wondered whether or not he would ever come back. It did not take him long to give himself an answer and the knowledge forced his lips into an uneven, humourless smile. Cook was engaged on his call for no more than five minutes and he was compelled to end it with an assurance that he would return the favour as soon as it was possible.
“Right, got your own way again, Rathe,” barked the inspector. “So you owe me three drinks. I don’t suppose you want to tell me why I’ve just put myself out for you yet again, do you? No, course you don’t.”
“I will do actually,” said Anthony Rathe. “It’s just that I made a promise to Terence and Sonia Villiers and for once I want to be able to say I kept it.”
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