The Stolen Girls

by Patricia Gibney

  The letter lay on the green-Formica-topped table in front of Andri Petrovci, along with a plate of chips. Mugs of black coffee for Lottie and Boyd.

  Lottie kept her eyes on the workman’s downturned shaved head. ‘Do you know the language it’s written in?’

  He had agreed to meet her once she’d said they didn’t have to go too far from the site. The Malloca Café on the corner was quiet, even though it was lunchtime. Louis, the owner, stood behind the counter glaring at them. He probably blamed the contractors for decimating his trade.

  Boyd, sitting with his arms folded, was frowning. She should have come alone – she knew he didn’t approve of this course of action – but he was in his persistent-mole mood, so she had relented.

  ‘I busy,’ Petrovci said. ‘Boss, he not happy.’

  ‘Mr Petrovci. Just tell us what the note says. DS Boyd will write everything down. Then you can go back to work,’ Lottie said.

  He picked up the note. ‘Not signed.’

  ‘No,’ she said curtly. She wasn’t about to tell him where it had come from.

  He studied the page. She studied him. Thick fingers with dirty broken nails. Behind long dark lashes his brown-black eyes appeared couched with pain. The caverns of his sunken cheeks might be from hunger, or maybe it was his nature. And the scar. An uneasy shiver slid down Lottie’s spine and her smile drowned on her lips in a sea of confusion. Was it a mistake involving him? Boyd thought so. She hoped not. Her last case had landed her in enough trouble without her making the same mistakes this time.

  ‘The note is in Albanian,’ he said.

  ‘Can you read it?’ Lottie asked.

  He shrugged.

  ‘Please,’ she urged.

  ‘The person who write say not free to leave. Want your help. Find missing friend Kaltrina. Help escape.’

  Lottie leaned forward, keeping her eyes on his. ‘Escape? From what?’

  ‘I only know what it say. This friend Kaltrina, not seen for few days.’

  Lottie turned and looked at Boyd. Could Kaltrina be their dead girl?

  ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  Petrovci shook his head. ‘Need your help. That all.’ He pushed the page towards Lottie. ‘I go now?’

  ‘Wait. It must say something else. Was this Kaltrina pregnant?’

  His eyes darkened. ‘I tell you what is written.’

  Learning nothing from his stony expression, Lottie said, ‘Can you tell us where you were this weekend and what you were doing?’

  ‘You arrest me?’

  ‘Just asking a few questions.’ Lottie felt Boyd’s eyes boring into her. She refused to acknowledge him.

  Petrovci said, ‘I at home. Alone. Okay? I go now.’

  ‘We will need to take another formal statement from you. Don’t leave town.’

  Standing up, Petrovci gestured for Boyd to get out of his way. As he eased out of the seat, Lottie noted that he was a good head taller than Boyd, who was over six foot. He walked out, hi-vis vest billowing in the breeze orchestrated by the swinging door.

  She saw Boyd watching her looking after Petrovci. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘Big mistake. Big mistake.’ He folded his notebook into his trouser pocket. ‘You shouldn’t be interviewing a suspect in a fucking chipper’s. And you had no right to show him that letter. You learned nothing from him, and what if this Mimoza really is in trouble? Did you think of that? Maybe your construction worker there is the source of that trouble. You need to stop and think before you act.’

  He walked out, leaving Lottie to pay the bill.

  Mistake? Shit.

  * * *

  ‘I wonder if our murdered girl is this missing Kaltrina,’ Lottie said, walking behind Boyd, trying to make conversation.

  She caught up with him as he swung his jacket from one shoulder to the other. The street was steaming with clogged traffic going nowhere. Dust from the roadworks swirled around; noise from heavy machinery polluted the atmosphere, raising temperatures higher than a mercury barometer.

  ‘The note doesn’t mention she was pregnant, so your guess is as good as mine.’ Boyd shifted his jacket once again.

  ‘I don’t do guesses.’

  ‘But you go to potential suspects for help.’

  ‘Give it a rest, Boyd.’

  ‘Okay, but when Corrigan gets wind of this, I don’t want to get caught in the down-draught.’ He walked on ahead of her.

  ‘How can we find out if the body is that of this Kaltrina?’ She caught up with him again.

  ‘So far no one has been reported missing. No one reported abducted.’

  ‘I need to find Mimoza for more information.’

  ‘Lottie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t involve this Petrovci character. We know nothing about him.’

  ‘He read the note for us, didn’t he?’

  ‘You have no idea what is in that note. He could have said anything.’

  ‘I’ll get it translated,’ she said. ‘Properly this time.’

  ‘Don’t make the same mistake as last—’

  ‘Oh my God, you’re the proverbial broken record.’

  They turned the corner. The twin-spired cathedral soared upwards like a majestic bookend at the top of the street. The murder at the end of December within its marbled walls might have been a fading memory to most of Ragmullin’s citizens but Lottie could not forget. It had set off a train of events, solving her personal family secret about her long-lost brother, Eddie, and in the course of many mistakes she had almost lost her son. She shivered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Boyd asked.

  Gripping her arms tight to her body, Lottie shrugged off his concern and hurried into the station. She couldn’t help thinking she had made an error of judgement involving Andri Petrovci.

  FIFTEEN

  Back in the office, sitting at her desk reading her way through various reports on the murder, Lottie looked up to see Kirby struggling to get in the door, a large watermelon gripped to his chest, dribbles of perspiration slipping down his face from his bushy, in-need-of-a-cut hair.

  ‘Is it raining?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘We’re so funny today,’ Kirby mocked, slapping the watermelon onto his desk. It started to roll. He caught it before it smashed on the floor.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Thought we might have a game of football. Any of you geniuses know how to cut up this thing?’

  ‘Google it,’ Lottie and Boyd said together.

  ‘Fuckers,’ said Kirby.

  Turning her attention away from Kirby as he went off in search of a knife, Lottie said, ‘When we find Mimoza, we’ll show her a photograph of the dead girl.’

  Boyd slammed a bunch of interview transcripts down on his desk without answering her.

  ‘Just thinking, boss, the victim might be one of those asylum seekers,’ Kirby said, returning from the canteen brandishing a bread knife. ‘They’re housed up in the army barracks and she might not have been reported missing yet.’ He leaned down to Lottie and whispered, ‘No sign of McNally.’

  She nodded her thanks. ‘We were wondering the same thing yesterday evening. Why do you think she could’ve been resident there?’

  ‘She hasn’t been reported missing by anyone, has she?’ Kirby set about dissecting the watermelon on his desk.

  ‘No,’ Lottie said. ‘So she’s probably not a local, and we’ve checked the national missing persons list too.’

  ‘There was a fierce commotion a few months ago in the media about the accommodation at the army barracks,’ Kirby said. ‘Overcrowding or something.’ Juice splattered up from the melon. ‘When the barracks closed down, everyone was afraid it would be overrun with vagrants,’ he continued, pips caught in a day’s growth of stubble. ‘Then there was more of an outcry when the Department of Justice set up the camp.’

  ‘Camp? Kirby, you are the most politically incorrect person I know.’

/>   ‘You know what I mean.’ Kirby sucked on the watery fruit.

  ‘We’ve no evidence the victim is from this… what do they call it?’ Lottie said.

  ‘Direct provision centre. We’ve no idea where the hell she’s from.’ Kirby offered a slice of melon to Boyd, who declined with a shake of his head.

  Lottie typed a few words into her computer. ‘Says on the DOJ website that the guy in charge of the direct provision centre is Dan Russell, ex-army officer. Interesting to note too, the Ragmullin centre is one of the government’s latest outsourcing projects.’ She continued to read.

  ‘Experimental so,’ Boyd said. ‘God knows what it’s like.’

  ‘Like a concentration camp. That’s what I heard.’ Kirby squelched the fruit, rivulets leaking from the side of his flabby lips. ‘All women and children. The men are located at another centre somewhere. Longford or Athlone. Families split up.’

  Lottie ignored their banter. ‘Let’s pay a visit to Mr Russell,’ she said to Boyd, anxious to flee Kirby and his obnoxious eating habits.

  ‘Wonder if Russell knew your Adam,’ Boyd said.

  SIXTEEN

  Ragmullin army barracks, built in 1817, had changed little in almost two hundred years. Lottie and Boyd entered through a door beside the main gate and showed their ID to a security guard. Up ahead, the old guard hut was empty and the jail, which during the civil war had held IRA leader General MacEoin captive, also looked bereft of human habitation. The security guard pointed out directions. Lottie and Boyd followed the cobbled path and entered a building marked ‘Block A’, situated beside a small chapel.

  Climbing the wooden stairs to Russell’s office, Boyd asked, ‘Are you all right being here, Lottie?’

  ‘It’s a bit weird, but I’m okay.’

  She knocked on the door, feeling claustrophobic in the narrow corridor.

  ‘Enter,’ came the command from within.

  With formalities over and seated at his desk, Lottie studied Dan Russell. He was the quintessential ex-army man. Uniform-like suit, slate grey, black tie and immaculate white shirt. She placed a photograph of the dead girl on the desk. She had no qualms about showing him a post-mortem picture.

  He glanced down. ‘I don’t know her.’ His voice was as sharp as his appearance. He looked up from the photograph, directly at Lottie. He had navy-blue eyes and was older than she’d first thought – perhaps late fifties – with a moustache perched above a thin upper lip. ‘I’m exceptionally busy, Inspector,’ he said. ‘You do realise I’ve had to reschedule my day to fit you in.’

  ‘Yes, and thank you. Appreciated,’ Lottie said abruptly. Tell me if you know the girl in the photo and I’ll get out of your sleek black hair, she thought.

  ‘You’re on a wild goose chase.’ A smile tickled the edge of his upper lip.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What makes you think this person might be from here?’

  Lottie counted the pictures hanging on the wall behind him. In stressful situations, she counted things. Gave her time to breathe. It stemmed from a trauma in her childhood when she’d used it as a coping mechanism.

  ‘Do you recognise the dead girl? That’s all I’m asking,’ she said at last.

  ‘She’s dead?’ The lip drooped. Shock? Surely he knew it was a post-mortem photograph.

  ‘Yes, she’s dead,’ Lottie said. ‘Murdered.’

  ‘And I’m your first port of call?’ Russell’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I don’t think she’s local and it’s possible she’s a refugee or an asylum seeker as she’s not yet been reported missing. We thought you might recognise her as someone who’s been here and—’

  ‘I have to stop you there, Inspector.’ He held up his hand as if she was a lowly private under his command. ‘Let me explain. This centre houses desperate people escaping war in their own countries. Syria, Africa, Afghanistan. You name it. They come from many troubled lands. They stay here while their documents are being processed. During this transition period they have access to food and shelter until we find ways of dealing with their circumstances.’ He took a breath and exhaled. ‘I don’t want to appear disruptive to your investigation, but frankly I’m astonished that you have the audacity to suggest one of our inmates might be this murdered girl.’

  Lottie let him rant, casting an eye towards Boyd. He raised a quizzical brow. Inmates?

  ‘Is this a prison?’ she asked.

  ‘No. It’s a direct provision centre. I thought I’d explained that. It’s a government initiative, run by my company.’

  ‘A private company?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘Woodlake Facilities Management. Look it up.’

  Lottie bristled. ‘I only want to establish if you know who this victim is.’

  ‘I don’t know her. I’m sorry.’ He slid the photo back across the desk.

  ‘Can I ask around?’ Lottie chanced. ‘Someone might recognise her.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ Russell said. He retrieved the photograph. ‘I’ll keep this and do the asking. If I discover anything, you will be contacted.’

  ‘Thank you. Another thing. Do you know anyone called Kaltrina?’

  His eyes flickered slightly. ‘No. Should I?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  Doubting she would hear further from him, Lottie handed over her card anyway. Though it was sweltering despite an old fan, the room suddenly felt icy.

  Russell stood. Lottie rose too.

  Boyd remained seated, chewing the inside of his lip. ‘How about the name Mimoza? Ever hear that?’

  Lottie kicked him, but it was too late. She caught the look darting like the tail of a fleeing rat across Russell’s face before he flashed his pearly-white teeth.

  ‘There are a lot of people residing here,’ he said. ‘My job is to oversee the facility. It’s a very busy place and I don’t have much direct contact with the inmates.’

  That word again. And it was clear to Lottie that he had recognised the name Mimoza.

  Before she could question him further, Russell continued, ‘They come from many countries but unfortunately most of them look alike to me, so I can’t say I know who you’re talking about. Sorry.’

  ‘Then we need to talk to someone who does know,’ Lottie said firmly.

  ‘No, Inspector.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘I will check on your behalf.’

  Silently she admitted defeat. For the moment. She would try getting a list of names herself. They had to be logged on some database. Gesturing for Boyd to leave, she hurried down the wooden stairs behind him and out into the blistering sunlight.

  * * *

  Outside the gates, Lottie wondered why they hadn’t seen any evidence of people milling around the barracks.

  ‘It’s eerily quiet,’ she said. ‘Do you think everyone’s locked up in their rooms?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Boyd said, ‘but Russell’s a tough nut.’

  ‘If any evidence turns up to suggest the dead girl was a resident, we’ll get a search warrant.’

  They trekked across The Green, once a bustling market area for cattle and sheep, now a makeshift short cut into the town centre. Girding the grassy expanse were terraces of jaded 1950’s houses. Minuscule gardens fenced with rusted ironwork appeared neat but generally devoid of humanity. Too hot for the aged residents to venture outside. Lottie didn’t blame them.

  ‘I hope Russell’s in this mess right up to his shiny arse,’ she said.

  They crossed the road at the edge of the green and headed across the canal footbridge.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He calls the residents inmates. Does he think he’s a prison governor?’

  ‘He knew the name Mimoza – that much was obvious.’

  ‘Yes, Boyd, and I hope you haven’t caused difficulty for her if she is in there.’

  ‘If he knows her, why didn’t he admit it?’

  ‘There’s something he’s not telling us. I can feel it. ‘

  Boyd leaned over the bridge and l
it a cigarette. ‘You want one?’

  ‘I do, but I’ve quit.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Oh, shut up and light one for me.’

  Lottie inhaled and stood on the bridge contemplating the cloudy green waters below. A man walked along the cherry-blossom tree-lined towpath with a husky pup on a long lead. He waved and she waved back.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Boyd.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  They smoked their cigarettes in silence.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask Russell if he knew Adam?’ Boyd said eventually.

  ‘I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, the bastard.’ She took a long, hard drag on the cigarette. ‘I’m going to get Lynch to check Russell out.’

  * * *

  When he was sure the detectives were well away from the front gates, Dan Russell made a phone call.

  Three minutes later, a man with crooked teeth was standing in his office.

  Russell said, ‘Fatjon, I’ve had the local guards in. They’ve discovered a girl’s body. Has that got anything to do with you?’

  ‘I know nothing about a body.’

  ‘Good. Find out what that bitch Mimoza has been up to and make sure she keeps her big mouth shut.’

  Fatjon said, ‘She left the compound yesterday morning. Bribed one of the guards with her cute little ass.’ He laughed. Russell glared.

  ‘Did you find her? Where did she go? Did she say anything to anyone?’

  ‘We found her and that girl she hangs round with strolling on the other side of town. I had a word with her. Threatened to take her boy away.’

  ‘I asked for a low-profile operation and what do I get?’ Russell stood up suddenly and paced the wooden floor of his office. ‘Fucking incompetent Arabs.’

  ‘They’re not Arabs.’

  ‘They’re fucking eejits, that’s what.’ Russell, his head an inch below the fan, continued his march.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Grill her again. One of the detectives mentioned her name. She’s done or said something. If she refuses to talk to you, send her to Anya. A few days with her legs around a pimple-backed, rutting Ragmullin pig might change her silent tune.’