Only the Dead Can Tell

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Only the Dead Can Tell Page 16

by Alex Gray


  As she crested the rise and turned west, Juliana spotted the full moon rising blood red above the horizon.

  It was a bad omen, surely, a sign of danger to come. She shivered, hurrying onwards, glancing over her shoulder as her pace quickened, a sudden feeling that she was once more hastening towards her doom.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Pop-up brothels,’ the woman declared, swinging one leg across the other as she scanned the folder on her knee. Then, turning around as an elderly lady entered the room carrying a tray, she smiled. ‘Mmm, chocolate biscuits. They are treating you well here, Superintendent!’

  ‘Aye, an’ so they should!’ the tea lady declared, hands on hips. ‘This yin’s been through enough tae melt a dug’s bone, so he has!’

  ‘Thanks, Sadie,’ Lorimer told the tea lady. ‘Good of you to bring this up here.’

  ‘An’ here’s yer Danish pastries fur afterwards,’ the wee woman mumbled, surreptitiously passing a white paper bag to Lorimer before scuttling back outside.

  Deputy Chief Constable Caroline Flint raised questioning eyebrows as she sat beside Lorimer in his Helen Street office.

  ‘Sadie Dunlop,’ Lorimer explained. ‘The mother hen of divisional headquarters everywhere she can sell her home baking.’

  ‘Ah.’ Caroline Flint nodded. ‘Special treatment, eh?’

  ‘Sadie’s always had a soft spot for me.’ Lorimer grinned. ‘Think I’m probably her best customer.’

  DCC Flint returned his smile. ‘Looks like you’ve settled in well at the MIT. And the team are behind you one hundred per cent?’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ Lorimer agreed. ‘And it’s all thanks to you that I’m here at all.’

  She did not respond to this, merely nodded absently and continued reading the report, one hand reaching absently for a chocolate biscuit.

  ‘This Molly Newton. Good officer?’

  ‘One of the best,’ Lorimer replied warmly. Of course, he remembered, Caroline Flint had been an undercover officer too, back in her Met days. ‘Molly reckons they’ve been hiding in plain sight. Nail bars, street beggars, what have you; anything that catches the eye of a potential punter. Rent a room for a day and a night then scarper, taking their women to the next place.’

  ‘Keeps them one step ahead of the law,’ the DCC murmured. ‘We’ve seen this pattern before, haven’t we?’

  Lorimer stifled a sigh. It was true that the people traffickers had grown cannier as they had built up their business. Sometimes whole gangs of labourers would descend on a building project, their gangmaster demanding cash in hand and getting it too. Undercutting the going rate was a common way of slipping under the radar and also saved the less scrupulous firms a lot in overheads. The women could be dispersed in shopping centres any distance from the city, hawking their freelance skills as nail technicians or eyebrow threaders with a view to proposing a whole other sort of service.

  ‘So.’ The DCC looked up at last and reached for her coffee cup. ‘Think you can track them down? It’s more than three weeks now since those raids in Aberdeen. Trail gone cold, do you think?’

  ‘We’ve got several surveillance officers in and around the city as well as Molly,’ he replied. ‘The banks are also on the alert for any unusual transactions that could appear to be money laundering.’

  ‘Goes hand-in-hand with that sort of game,’ she agreed. ‘They have to find somewhere to clean up their dirty money. Though lots of them appear to work on a cash basis, remember. Rolls of banknotes under the mattress.’ She sighed. ‘Well, I wish you luck, William,’ she said, rising from her chair next to Lorimer’s desk. ‘Too old now to offer my own services,’ she chuckled. ‘Lucky DS Newton! Sometimes wish I was back in the field.’

  Lorimer smiled as she shook his hand. DCC Flint had come to Scotland at a time when there had been a crying need for an objective eye on the management side of Police Scotland and she was already being hailed as the next Chief Constable when the present incumbent retired.

  Molly Newton did not consider herself lucky in the least as she sat listening to the woman across the nail bar who was wittering on about her seven grandchildren and how clever they all were. She had been the third pensioner in a row and Molly was wondering if there would ever be a moment to listen to the girls in the back shop. But holiday time was approaching and the place was full of clients keen to have their talons in perfect order for whatever place in the sun beckoned them away from Glasgow.

  She glanced up as the door opened and a dark-haired girl stood on the threshold, an uncertain expression on her face as she looked into the busy salon.

  Molly caught her eye and smiled. ‘With you in two minutes?’ she called out, her accent deliberately affecting an eastern European drawl. She saw the girl hesitate then nod, walking towards the empty seat opposite Molly’s space behind the nail bar.

  There was something about her, Molly thought, noticing the way she curled her fingers into slack fists as though embarrassed about her nails. And she sat right on the edge of the chair, nervously glancing around as though making ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

  Molly Newton’s years of reading a person’s body language told her many things and right now she was curious to understand why this young girl was here despite being very afraid indeed.

  The screams from the man on the ground stopped suddenly as the figure over him plunged the knife downwards. No one would miss this piece of trash, the killer told himself, pulling out the blade and wiping it on the grass. He aimed a kick at the body, sending it tumbling down the cliff side. It landed in the water below with a satisfying splash. He stepped into the waiting car and leaned back, never once glancing at the driver. The big car roared away, a cloud of dust rising for a few seconds then settling on the patch of ground where, moments before, a man had been brutally killed.

  He was glad that the driver had witnessed the scene. Max would be told about it and be pleased.

  And they both knew that the boss did not tolerate the slightest deviation from his orders.

  ‘Max wants us to find her,’ the big man told his companion as he parked in a city centre multistorey car park. ‘Take this.’ He shoved a brown envelope onto the driver’s lap. ‘Half now and half when she’s found. And I mean returned. Alive.’ He grinned. ‘We can have fun with her afterwards but Max gets her first. Okay?’

  ‘Why does he think she’s here, in Glasgow?’

  ‘The old man told her to come here, didn’t he? That was their back-up plan.’ He grinned. ‘Didn’t reckon on being overheard by another Slovak, though. Or getting banged up in the Bar L.’

  The driver opened the envelope and riffled the notes, tongue protruding between his lips as he counted.

  ‘How do you know all of this?’

  The hit man shrugged. ‘Max told me. You know what he’s like. Seems to know what goes on everywhere.’

  The driver glanced at his companion, seeing the sudden shudder. It took a lot to put the frighteners on someone like this man but the power that the boss wielded was legendary.

  ‘Right, I’m off. Got a shift coming up and need to keep an eye on that pair of Slovaks in case they’re up to any more nonsense. Be seeing you.’ He climbed out of the BMW and slammed the door. The sound reverberated off the concrete walls of the car park then, with a squeal of tyres, the car set off, taking the corner a little too fast. The hit man shook his head and sighed.

  ‘Always in a hurry, that one,’ he murmured. ‘Come to grief if he’s not careful.’

  He made his way down the metal staircase, an old sports bag in one hand. For a moment it reminded him of the place he was heading but at least he would be out in a few hours, free to do the bidding of his real paymaster. It was just a matter of time before he’d be shot of the jail for good. Then there would be years ahead to sit back and enjoy all the money that was coming his way.

  ‘Plum Tart?’ Molly giggled as she showed the girl the shade of purple nail gel.

  A quick upward glance gave
her away immediately. That strained look in her eyes, the way she snatched back her hands. Could this be the Slovakian girl that the MIT wanted to find? Juliana Ferenc? Molly thought hard, remembering all of the details. Maybe she could create a story, draw her in . . .

  ‘Or how about this one?’ she asked, pretending not to notice the girl’s discomfiture, and bringing out a bottle of luminescent scarlet then turning it upside down to read the tiny label. ‘An Affair in Red Square, it’s called!’ She gave another giggle and caught the girl’s eye. But this time there was a smile of understanding that this was just a bit of fun between ‘Sasha’, the technician, and her latest client.

  ‘Yes,’ the dark-haired girl agreed. ‘That one will be good.’

  ‘Come far, have you?’ Molly chatted. ‘I love this city, don’t you?’ she went on, still smiling as she drew an emery board across the girl’s fingernails.

  ‘You from where?’

  Molly shrugged, her mind casting around for a place to suggest, somewhere close enough to Slovakia that would give her an instant rapport with this girl. ‘Nowhere special. You probably never heard of it. I was born outside of Timis¸oara but I’ve lived most of my life in Italy. Came here to study and got this great job.’ She winked. ‘Lots of perks, I can tell you!’ She smiled and waggled her own pristine fingernails.

  ‘I did work in a place like this once,’ the girl offered.

  ‘Back home? You’re from Slovakia, right?’ Molly concentrated on the girl’s fingernails as though the question didn’t matter.

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes, from a small village in the east. Not on many maps,’ she added.

  Molly tried to hide the growing excitement that she felt. It could be the girl that had escaped from that raid in Aberdeen. Her remit was to watch and see if the nail bar was a front for something altogether more sinister but perhaps she had unwittingly stumbled on another element of the investigation into the people-trafficking ring.

  ‘I love your look,’ she said, waving a hand at the girl. ‘Gorgeous hair.’ She sighed enviously. ‘Maybe you’ll let me take a photo for my client book once I’ve finished?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation so Molly rattled on. ‘See, I’ve got loads already,’ she insisted. ‘It’s a great salon, here. They encourage you to keep your clients as well. I can give you a discount if you like?’

  The girl seemed lost in her thoughts but then she looked up and gave a shy smile.

  ‘I wanted to see if I could find a . . . job . . . like yours,’ she stammered. ‘That is why I came.’

  Molly took a silent breath. It had to be her. It just had to be.

  ‘Let me see if I can persuade the boss to give you an interview,’ she answered at last. ‘There, first coat done,’ she added, watching as the girl put experienced fingers under the gel-setting beam.

  ‘When . . . ?’ The question hovered in the air, the expression on the girl’s face anxious yet hopeful.

  ‘How about coming back this afternoon? Say four o’clock?’ Molly asked brightly. It would give her time to check back with the team, have someone ready to escort this Slovakian girl back to headquarters.

  The girl nodded and Molly exhaled a sigh of relief.

  ‘Right, hands up to your cheeks. That’s right. Now, smile!’

  Molly took several pictures with her smart phone and then put it carelessly into her bag as though it were a perfectly routine matter. The girl had seemed reluctant to be photographed at first but Molly’s disarming manner had put her at ease.

  ‘Okay. I’m giving you a special discount today. Can I have your name?’ she asked briskly, pen poised over a pad of Post-it notes.

  There was a pause. Then the girl shook her head. ‘You can call me Julia,’ she said at last.

  Short for Juliana? Molly wanted to call out but for now that question had to remain unasked. And she wouldn’t push for a surname lest she scare the girl off.

  ‘Thanks, Julia.’ Molly smiled, taking the twenty pound note and giving the girl five bright new pound coins in change. ‘See you at four.’

  She watched the dark-haired Slovakian girl leave the salon then sped into the ladies’ toilets where she immediately sent the photos to her contact in Govan.

  Think I’ve found the Ferenc girl, she typed. Be here at 4.

  Juliana glanced at her reflection in the window of a shop. She could be taken for anyone in this city, an office worker on her lunch break, a tourist enjoying the sunshine. She looked at her perfectly manicured nails and stroked their smooth curves. Now she was ready to begin a new phase of her life. If that nice lady, Sasha, could find her a job, then surely she could earn enough to remain here until she had found Uncle Pavol and her beloved brother, Mario?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  What if Rosie Fergusson was wrong? Kirsty heaved a sigh as she sat at her desk in Govan police station. There was some evidence to suggest that Dorothy Guilford had been murdered and now she felt that there were at least three people who might have wanted her dead. McCauley had decided it was the husband and, fair play to him, there was that tiny bloodstain on the man’s old jacket. But what if that had been from a different assault? The poor woman certainly seemed like an abused wife from the injuries she had seen on her body during the post-mortem, despite no medical notes to verify that. But did Peter Guilford deserve to be tried for murder if he hadn’t wielded that fatal knife? Some folk would say yes, Kirsty thought gloomily. The women who were hell-bent on getting revenge against abusers of any description.

  But the law was there to protect the innocent, even when they had already done terrible things in the past. An image came to her of Guilford asleep in that bed, the rise and fall of the bedclothes, the whirr of machines attached to his body. Such a helpless human being he had seemed then! It was hard to reconcile that person with the one who had carried out numerous attacks on his deranged wife. Bastard deserves all he gets! she’d overheard a colleague say when the news came in about the near-fatal attack on Guilford. But did he deserve such brutality? Did anyone? Had Dorothy been a difficult wife to live with? Her sister had drawn a picture of a nasty, grasping character but that alone was surely no reason for being killed.

  Kirsty closed her eyes and drew a hand across her forehead. It was especially hot in the office today and she had a ton of paperwork to catch up on.

  ‘DC Wilson?’

  ‘Yes?’ Kirsty looked up to see one of the senior officers approach. ‘I was asked to give you this,’ he said, handing her an envelope. Then he gave her a smile, adding, ‘Good luck.’

  Kirsty frowned as she slit open the envelope with a nail file and read the letter within.

  You are invited to attend an interview . . . the letter began. She grasped it tightly. It had not occurred to Kirsty that she might actually be considered for promotion just yet but nevertheless she had filled in the requisite form and submitted it to her divisional commander some months ago.

  She felt her cheeks becoming hot. How ironic was this! Just when she had to decide whether or not she was going to accompany James to Chicago (if he got the job, she reminded herself) and give up her own career, here was yet another incentive to stay put. For a split second Kirsty wanted to tear the letter into pieces and throw them into the waste-paper basket but the thought of her father stopped her. How sad he would be if she were to give up the opportunity to further her career in Police Scotland! It had taken Dad a long time to reach the heights of DI before his retirement and, she thought, hadn’t McCauley recently remarked that she might one day be addressed by her own colleagues as ‘Ma’am’?

  She read the letter again, making a note in her phone of the date and time that she was to present herself for interview.

  This could change their plans completely. If she stayed here, would James try for a different job? She heaved a sigh. He’d already been turned down so often for jobs in Scotland that suited his skills and the Chicago one sounded just right. It wasn’t fair. Here she was with the chance to climb up the promotion la
dder and James was looking so much further ahead to a family life where she would stay home and bring up their babies. Oh, she wanted that too, she knew that she did. But was it so impossible to have everything?

  ‘She can’t have everything,’ McCauley snapped. ‘Either she gives her evidence for the Crown and keeps on our side of the court or we have to have a second opinion. After all, she’s screwed up cases like this before.’

  The woman across the desk nodded her understanding. It was policy to have two post-mortems in a case where there was genuine doubt as to the cause of death. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I hear what you say. But it will be at our discretion which pathologist performs the second PM.’

  McCauley tried to hide his disappointment. ‘Thought Jacqui White . . . ’

  ‘Dr White is one possibility,’ the depute fiscal replied. ‘I’ll let you know.’

  McCauley grinned as he left the Fiscal’s office and made his way back to the car park. He’d sown the seeds of doubt into the depute’s mind. Fergusson was incompetent, that was his message, and he was certain that she would now be under added scrutiny. His tame reporter was ready and waiting for his signal to publish her piece on the consultant pathologist, just in time for the beginning of Guilford’s trial, something that was definitely going ahead once the man had recovered sufficiently to put him on the stand. When it all came out about her earlier mistake then Fergusson was finished as a credible expert witness for the defence. And, if the timing was right, she’s be trachled with a new bairn, too tired to concentrate properly, brain fogged by the post-baby state that all women seemed to get.

  He chuckled as he drove back towards Helen Street. If Jacqui White was to be chosen as the Crown’s pathologist then the odds were that she might even take over from Rosie Fergusson for good. The dark-haired beauty who had become a household name after her stint on television was waiting in the wings right now to fill the gap as head of Forensic Medical Science once Fergusson’s maternity leave began. Alan McCauley had cosied up to Jacqui on several occasions, and not just because of this current business. She was a real stunner and he was a single guy with an eye for the ladies; smart ladies like Jacqui who could be persuaded to feather her own nest in return for a little muck raking.

 

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