Torment

by David Evans

  “I can hear you’re on the move. Tell me you’re not going there now.”

  “Sorry, the signal’s breaking up.”

  “Don’t give me that bollocks. This is serious. We need to know who they were nicking the cars for, and how Helena’s body ended up in one.”

  “I’ll call you later, the traffic’s getting heavy.”

  “Bob? Bob?” The line was dead.

  When the interview resumed, Kelly picked up where she had left off. “So, as I asked before the break, Mr Mirczack, do you own a car?”

  “Yes,” he responded.

  “What type of vehicle is it?”

  “Well, I say, yes, but I don’t know where it is. It was stolen before I went to Riga.”

  “Have you reported it?”

  “No. I don’t think it’s worth it. If I do find it, it will probably be burned out somewhere."

  “Where was it stolen?”

  “Outside my flat in the centre of Leeds.”

  “When exactly?”

  “Monday. I came down and it was gone.”

  “And it’s a dark blue Mercedes 300SE, is that correct?”

  “You know the details?”

  “Of course we do. And you didn’t think it worth reporting.”

  “Insurance pay nothing. Police don’t do nothing. Waste of time.”

  “I’m sure my client will make a formal report of the matter before we leave here today,” Atherton said.

  It was Halliday’s turn to pick up the mantle. He selected the photo of Chris Baker from the file and placed it on the table. “Do you recognise this man? For the benefit of the tape, I’m showing Mr Mirczack photograph P2.”

  Mirczack glanced down then across to Halliday. “No.”

  “If you could take a proper look.”

  Mirczack let out a breath, leaned forward and picked it up. “No, I’m sure.”

  Halliday looked to Strong. “Strange,” he said, “I thought you said he was a regular client at Sweet Sensations?”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt about that, Frank,” Strong said. “We have witnesses to support that.”

  “I said before, I leave business to the manager. I don’t see the men who visit.”

  Strong knew he had nothing to place Baker and Mirczack in the same place at the same time. Lyudmyla said that Baker had left before Mirczack turned up on the night of the argument. It was only Szymanski’s statement that linked the information provided by Baker to Mirczack. What if Szymanski was organising the car thefts? And yet, it was Mirczack who had the connections in Latvia, where the cars were destined.

  “So you’ve never seen this man before?” Halliday persisted.

  “No.”

  Strong tried a different tack. “Do the names Gary Baker and Steve Chapman mean anything to you?”

  He thought he detected a glimmer of a reaction from the big Yugoslav.

  “I’m sorry but I never heard of these people.”

  “Have you ever had dealings with Yorkshire Exports?”

  Mirczack shrugged. “I do not recognise the name but …”

  The interview continued for some time with the same negative or nondescript responses. Strong knew they needed something more substantial to link Mirczack to the car thefts, the Bakers, Chapman and Helena. As it stood, Mirczack would hang Szymanski out to dry, claim innocence of all that went on at the parlour and even accuse Szymanski of organising the vehicle exports. As Halliday had surmised, he would even side-step the sex-trafficking accusations and leave Szymanski to take the blame for that. Eventually, Strong suspended the interview.

  Atherton was his usual smooth-talking self. “Obviously, my client wishes to help with your investigations Mr Strong but I think he has told you all he can. I would like you to release him now. Should you wish to …”

  “I don’t think so just yet,” Strong interrupted. “We still have questions to put, and we will need to take a statement. We’ll take a break for now.”

  Gathering up their files, Strong, Halliday and Stainmore left the room.

  60

  Jaywick. The place sounded … well Souter didn’t really know how it sounded. Possibly as if it belonged in a Hans Christian Anderson fairy story. But then again, it could have been a children’s TV series. This was just one of his trains of thought as he sat nursing a tea in a café in Clacton. He’d treated himself to some seaside fish and chips after the four hour journey south from Yorkshire. Spoilt for choice in the resort, he decided against the Essex specialities of jellied eels or pie and mash complete with liquor, a strange green parsley and garlic sauce.

  “Everything all right for you?” The waitress collected his empty plate and cutlery from the table. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No. No thanks, love.”

  “Just here for the day or are you staying longer?”

  “Me?” Souter was surprised by her interest. “I’m not sure. It just depends.” She stood for a few seconds before he spoke again. “Listen, I’m looking for a friend of mine I think might be in a place called Jaywick. Have you heard of it?”

  She smiled. “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of it. It’s unique.”

  “What way?”

  “You need to experience it. There’s nowhere else like it in the country, I’m sure. I always take my visitors there. There and Dedham – Constable country. Chalk and cheese.”

  He looked at her. She was quite attractive for her age, he thought. “You do realise,” he said, “you’ve said quite a lot but told me nothing.”

  She laughed. “That’s the secret,” she said before walking back to the kitchen.

  An elderly couple at a nearby table got up and left. The café owner came from behind the counter to clear their crockery away and wipe the table.

  The waitress reappeared minus her apron with a jacket over her arm. “See you tomorrow, Tommy,” she said to the man with the cloth, then to Souter, “Still here?”

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t worry, I’m leaving. As soon as I work out the way to Jaywick.”

  She smiled. “I’m finished now, so I can point you in the right direction. I live just off Jaywick Lane.”

  He stood. “That’s very kind of you …”

  “Carol,” she offered. “And I’m just off for the bus.”

  “I’m Bob,” he responded. “Listen, if it’s on the way, I could give you a lift.” Hands up again. “I’m just parked round the corner. And I’m perfectly safe.”

  Carol looked at him seriously for a second or two, then grinned. “But I’m not,” she said. “I teach Karate to black belt standard.”

  “She does an’ all,” Tommy confirmed.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were in Souter’s car cutting through some back streets heading for the sea front.

  “I sometimes walk the dog on the beach at Jaywick,” Carol said. “The beach is lovely. It’s just some of the houses, well shacks really, that exist down there, you wouldn’t think people live in them.”

  He was finding it hard to concentrate. He’d just seen some apparition appear from a flat. Heavily rouged face, bright red lipstick, red housecoat, white scarf and slippers, she must have been at least 75 years old. Around the corner, walking casually down the street, was a man who looked to be in his late forties dressed in full cowboy outfit; black trousers, waistcoat, boots and Stetson, the only things missing were chaps and six-guns!

  Carol caught the focus of his attention. “I know,” she said, “There are probably more characters per square mile in Clacton than any other place in Britain.”

  Souter just shook his head. They drove past the hospital and turned right onto the seafront. It was a fine sunny late afternoon and a lot of people were walking along the greensward, some motorhomes were parked up and children were playing in the playpark, watched by smiling parents. Out past the golf club, Carol pointed to the opposite side of the road. “Clacton International Airport,” she said.

  “Really?” Souter looked surprised.

  Sh
e laughed. “No, only kidding. Just light aircraft, but there is a brilliant airshow around August Bank Holiday.”

  They were approaching a mini-roundabout opposite The Three Jays pub.

  “Turn left here and just drop me off. I’m only up there,” she said, indicating the other side of the pub.

  He pulled in to the side and she opened the door. “Might see you later if you’re still down there. It looks a fine evening. Me and my boy might take the dog down after tea. Thanks again, and I hope you find your friend.”

  “No problem,” Souter said.

  She closed the door and made her way carefully across the road and cut through the pub car park. Nice legs, he considered, then shook that thought from his mind and set off on his way once more.

  * * *

  In the CID Room, you could almost cut the air of frustration with a knife.

  “He’s going to walk out of here, Colin,” Halliday said. “The smarmy Atherton will see to that.”

  Strong, hands in his trouser pockets, was staring out of the window as if seeking divine inspiration. “The fact that it’s Atherton won’t have much to do with it. Even a junior solicitor would push for release.” He turned around. “And when he does go, he’ll most likely simply evaporate and never be seen again.”

  “We haven’t even found any forensic evidence to connect him with Luxor Grove,” Ryan said.

  Strong strode towards the door. “I’m going to have another word with Szymanski. He’s being hung out to dry on this. He must know about Mirczack’s car. No way would he just dismiss a Mercedes, eleven years old or not.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Halliday said.

  Bill Sidebotham was acting as custody sergeant and opened the cell door to Szymanski.

  “Stefan,” Strong began, “we wanted to have another word with you.”

  The Pole looked frightened. “Where’s my solicitor?”

  “This is unofficial. Just between us.” Strong leaned against a wall, Halliday stood by the open door.

  “Is this where you beat the shit out of me?” Szymanski wrung his hands.

  Strong smiled. “You’ve been watching too much telly. Look, I think you should know that Mirczack has denied any involvement in the car thefts, the sex-trafficking, in fact anything at all and is blaming you as his manager for absolutely everything.”

  Szymanski sat on the bed with his head down.

  “You told us you had nothing to do with stealing and processing the cars,” Halliday said. “Unless we get something tangible on him, Mirczack will walk, leaving you to rot in prison.”

  He eventually looked up, the fear evident on his face. “I’ve told you all I can.”

  “Mirczack owns a car,” Strong stated. “A Mercedes. Quite a nice one, we understand. It seems to have disappeared. He says it was stolen. Ironic really. He claims it wasn’t worth reporting. We think it’s in storage somewhere. Have you any ideas on that, Stefan? Just between these four walls, of course.”

  Szymanski shook his head. “You have no idea what he’s like. I would be dead.”

  “We could help you,” Halliday said.

  “In prison? I don’t think so. I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “Come on, Stefan,” Strong persisted. “He wouldn’t know you told us anything.”

  Szymanski lay down on the bed and turned to the wall.

  As Strong and Halliday made their way back upstairs, Sidebotham locked the cell door once more.

  “I’ll see you back in the Incident Room, Frank,” Strong said. “I just want to make a quick call.”

  Outside in the yard, Strong dialled Souter’s number. It wasn’t picked up and went straight to voicemail. He hesitated, then decided to leave a message. It was a big risk but he thought he could trust his friend not to use any information he gave him inappropriately. From their last conversation, Strong knew he was on to something. At a time like this he needed something, anything that might give him another chance with Mirczack.

  * * *

  Jaywick itself didn’t seem too bad. It was noticeable as Souter made his way down the road into the community that the bungalows became progressively shabbier, but it compared favourably with some parts of the north he was more familiar with. The road continued past some shops and a pub with the odd name of ‘Never Say Die’. A little further on, he passed an open concrete car park area next to a run-down amusement arcade. From here, the road ran parallel to the concrete sea wall with small bungalows on the opposite side. The accommodation began to take on more the appearance of a shanty town. The weather was warm and sunny and the car’s windows were down. He drifted past a brightly painted bungalow with a donkey and flowers cast into the gable end. What one of his colleagues at the Post would have referred to as ‘diddly–eye’ music was blasting out to the obvious delight of the elderly gent sitting in the small front yard, shirt off, smoking a cigarette.

  Eventually, he spotted the street he was seeking. All the roads in this area were named after classic British cars of the forties and fifties. Names like Alvis, Humber and Standard harked back to a time when this development was a weekend escape for people from London some seventy miles away. That was also before the great disaster of 1953. An unusually high surge tide running down the East coast combined with severe low pressure, high winds and heavy rain, led to the sea sweeping in behind the poor sea defences that existed then. Some 37 people lost their lives.

  Jaguar Avenue led off to the right. If he thought the buildings on the sea road were in a poor state, these looked positively dilapidated. Some were on stilts, making him think he’d crossed the Atlantic and was somewhere in the Mississippi River delta. The road was unmade, full of pot holes and strewn with rubbish. Various cars, the odd headlight missing or jacked up on bricks, made it difficult to negotiate. Number ten was one of those raised about four feet above the ground with a wooden veranda in front. He glanced towards the building as he drove slowly past but could detect no signs of activity. Managing to turn at the end of the road, he drove back down and pulled up behind a white van. Just before he wound up the windows, a young girl passed by, heavily pregnant in a short skirt and a top that left the bulge exposed. She was dragging a toddler by her tattooed left arm.

  “Get a fuckin’ move on, Conner. I ain’t got all day for you ya little sod.” It was only after she spoke again that he realised she was also holding a mobile phone to her right ear conducting a conversation at the same time. “Yeah, we’re on our way back now, Mum.”

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. A voicemail. He dialled and listened to the message Strong had left him. A tinge of conscience pricked that he hadn’t told him what he was up to exactly. He’d try and put that right, if he got the chance.

  As he got out of the car and locked up, he could feel numerous pairs of eyes on him. Dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, he hoped he didn’t stand out. But a stranger still elicits interest in a place like this. He opened the gate and climbed up the five steps onto the timber deck.

  As he knocked on the door, a woman in her seventies called to him from the veranda of the adjacent property. “I doubt you’ll find them in, darlin’,” she said in a cockney accent. “Not at this time of the day.”

  Souter turned, walked across towards her and leaned on the balustrading. She was sitting at a table with a man he took to be her husband. They had mugs of tea in front of them and both were smoking. “Do you know who lives here?” he asked.

  “Young Barry,” the man replied. “Well I say young, they’re all young to me.” He broke off into a chuckle which developed into a hacking cough.

  “That was until about a week ago when two other lads appeared,” his wife added.

  “Two of them?”

  “Yeah that’s right. Northerners like you. That’s their van there.” She nodded towards the Escort van parked in the street.

  Souter looked round and froze. He hadn’t paid any attention to the vehicle before, his focus was on finding Gary Baker. But there on the bottom of the pas
senger door was that distinctive outbreak of rust. It can’t be, he thought.

  “Fancy a cup of tea, son?” the man asked, “You look like you need one.”

  “Er, yes. That’s very kind of you, thanks.”

  When he’d made his way round to the couple’s table, the woman added, “We’re not all rough as arseholes round here, you know. Would you like some cake?”

  He struggled to keep a straight face. “No thanks, I had something in Clacton not long ago.”

  The woman introduced herself as Beryl and her husband as Tom.

  “How long have you two lived here?” Souter asked.

  “Used to come down here before the war with our parents. Lots of us did then. Have you seen the beach? It’s as good as you’ll get anywhere in this country, bloody sight better than Southend. That’s just a mud flat,” Beryl said.

  “So, have you found the right place?” Tom asked. Souter was puzzled for a second. “Next door?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he hesitated, “I’m not sure yet. I’m looking for friends of mine, Gary Baker and his mate Steve Chapman. I’d heard they were staying with their cousin, Barry.”

  “You might have found them,” Tom said. “I’ve heard Barry call the taller of them Steve and the lad with the shaved head Gaz.”

  “Yeah, Gaz, that’s right. That’s what we call him.” Souter finished his tea. “I don’t suppose you know where they might be now?”

  “At this time,” Beryl checked her watch, “they’ll be down the boozer. You must have seen it on the way in.”

  “I know where you mean.” He stood up. “Listen, Beryl, Tom, good to meet you and thanks for the hospitality.”

  “You’re welcome, son,” Beryl said.

  “If you miss them, who should I say was looking for them?” Tom asked.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t say anything for now, I want to surprise them, they don’t know I’m down south,” Souter smiled.

  He walked slowly past the white van on the way back to his car, taking in as much of the detail as possible. Before setting off, he took the CCTV stills from the glovebox and studied them carefully. He was in no doubt that this was the van that Maria got into that Saturday night, but whose van is it?