Souls of Men

by A. R. Ashworth

  Then they had driven in the direction of the last place Sheila had been seen alive. If Danilo was in hiding, he was probably in a place he knew, a place where he felt secure and comfortable. A place owned by IRG. Even though Greene had slipped away from Bull, he had given them an idea of where that place was.

  Elaine realized that Greene and the woman hadn’t been going to a dinner party. The photo had shown too many bags for that. He was taking supplies and a prostitute to Danilo.

  Elaine stepped back, unable to fully believe what her intuition was telling her. She went over it again, this time east-to-west, following the most likely path that Greene and the prostitute, which the young woman surely was, had taken. The route was as direct as it could have been. Bull hadn’t relayed any evasion on Greene’s part.

  Granted, after Bull had lost the tail, Greene could have turned left on Southgate at the end of Downham Road. If he had, he could have crossed Regent’s Canal to Hoxton.

  But suppose he had taken a right turn when he reached the end of Downham Road? She tracked her finger up Southgate. He would have gone west on Saint Paul’s Road. From there, it was only a couple of turns and he was within a half-mile of the Khoury’s shop and, somewhere near there, Sheila’s probable destination.

  If her hunch was right, they could narrow the search for Danilo tremendously, focusing on a couple of square miles around Highgate and Muswell Hill instead of the entire sprawling city. If she was wrong, then Hughes would undoubtedly replace her and she would spend the rest of her career chasing taggers and finding lost dogs.

  But she was right. In her gut, she knew it.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bosko sat on the sofa, listening to the young woman’s whimpers filter through the thin wall. At least her yelping has stopped, Bosko thought to himself. He certainly hadn’t planned on this when he accepted Nilo’s invitation for a spot of fun. Coke, lager, and a whore were what he had understood when Nilo had invited him to the house earlier in the day. But it had gone all crazy—crazier than anything he had experienced in his seventeen years.

  He thought back to the time before he had left Serbia to come to London. Bosko had loved Nilo like the older brother he never had. He was also afraid of him. In their hometown, Nilo had been feared by almost everyone, and not only because he was a favored son of the most powerful family in town.

  Nilo was utterly fearless, daring to do things that the other boys in town only dreamed about, urging them into risk, cheering them and clapping them on the back when they triumphed, berating and abusing them when they quailed at one of his challenges. Bosko had tagged along when Nilo had wanted to break into a house, steal a car, or go hunting for stray dogs. As a group, they had shared more than a few drunken girls. If the girl was quiet and cooperative, and lucky, she got a wad of Srecko money to show her what a whore she was and a warning to keep quiet. But most often, Nilo had slapped the girl around a bit afterward, leaving her with a bloody lip, bruises, and torn clothes as a reminder of what his family was capable of.

  Then one day, Nilo hurt a girl so badly that she would never fully recover. And even though it was an accident and the Srecko family made reparations, the girl’s family got the police involved, and Nilo had been forced to leave the country. Bosko hadn’t seen Nilo again until he himself had come to London a year ago to do building maintenance work for Uncle Janko. He had expected to continue to have fun with Nilo, picking up where they had left off.

  On occasion, they had some fun together, but Bosko soon realized that Nilo had changed. His older cousin had become more tyrannical, more volatile, more unpredictable. He constantly pushed the limits of what Bosko was prepared to do and experience. What was happening now was not like anything Bosko had seen Nilo do before.

  Thumping noises from the bedroom startled Bosko back into the present. Nilo roared something incomprehensible and the squeals of pain began again. Bosko thought back to his days on the family farm. The sounds reminded him of a scared piglet. Then came a sudden crash, and the squeals stopped. He sat there, stunned, his blood pounding in his ears.

  “Bosko! What the hell are you doing out there? Get in here!”

  Bosko sat, afraid to move, afraid not to move. He heard footsteps in the short corridor, and Nilo appeared, naked, with smears of blood splattering his lower torso, a baseball bat in his hand.

  “Bosko! Hey! Are you drunk?” He waited for Bosko to look at him. “You’re not turning into some kind of poof, are you? Come in here.” He turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  Bosko waited a few heartbeats, then stood and shuffled numbly to the door of the bedroom. The woman was sprawled across the edge of the bed, her upper body hanging off onto the floor, her blonde hair matted with blood. Nilo stood over her.

  “Stupid cow. Cunt!” Nilo bent and lifted one of her limp arms, then dropped it in disgust and threw the bat into a corner. He opened the drawer of a night table and extracted a large knife. Bosko gasped as Nilo bent down and poised the knife above the woman’s face. “Naaah. She’s used up. No fun now.” He replaced the knife in the drawer. “Get over here and help me wrap her in the sheets.”

  Bosko couldn’t make his feet move. He stood in the door, frozen. Nilo looked at him with clear disappointment. He spoke softly.

  “Now, Bosko, don’t lose your bottle when I truly need you.”

  Bosko’s throat was so tight, he could only croak in reply. He shuffled to the woman and took her arm, lifting and turning her limp body onto the bed. He cleared his throat and looked blankly at the body but saw only the blood. “Why did you have to do this, Nilo? I wasn’t ready for this. Her name was Katya. She was nice to me, at first. And now you’ve killed her.”

  “Nice to you, was she? She’s a whore. She spread her legs for money. And I didn’t mean to, did I? Ahh! Didn’t want to, but it was all her fault. The crying bitch had it coming. Sooner or later, somebody would have got sick of her whingeing and topped her. Just happened to be me. Sooner, that’s all.”

  They bundled Katya’s limp body into the bed linens and dragged her into the sitting room.

  Nilo tossed the keys to the Transit on the table. He opened a drawer, took out an FN Five-seveN pistol, and checked the magazine. Satisfied it was fully loaded, he stuffed it into his waistband. “Go get the Transit. Highgate isn’t far from here. We’ll dump it in the cemetery. Wait. Let’s have a bit before. Nothing sets things right like whisky and a pile of Peruvian. And a Five-seveN.”

  The alcohol and cocaine steamrollered some courage into Bosko’s brain. He snatched the keys and left to retrieve the Transit but returned within a minute. “It’s been clamped.”

  Nilo’s body jerked to attention. “What? Clamped? What the . . .” He rushed to the front window and pushed aside the curtain, straining to see the forlorn little van in the gathering darkness. “Fuck!”

  “Yeah. It ain’t going nowhere.”

  “Shit. Those goddamn pigs. It wasn’t that far over the line.” Nilo spun into a rage, shattering a chair with the baseball bat. Chips of plaster flew as he pounded the walls with the bat, cursing the police, Anton, the girl.

  Finally Nilo calmed. “We’ll have to use your motor. Bring it up to the door. I’ll turn out all the lights.”

  Twenty minutes later, they clattered up the narrow lane to Highgate Cemetery in Bosko’s clapped-out Fiesta. The gate was padlocked. A sign indicated that the cemetery had closed over three hours before their arrival. Nilo shook the bars, but the hinges and chain held firm. They navigated the streets around the cemetery, but the walls were either too high to climb or topped with iron spikes or wire. Each gate they tested was as sound as the first.

  Bosko was growing nervous as the drugs and alcohol faded. “What do we do now?”

  “Look there. I remember now.” Nilo pointed to the fence running down the right side of the lane. “It’s a park. Pull on the pavement, as close as you can.”

  Bosko complied and opened the hatch. They extracted the sheeted bundle and wrestled it to
the roof of the car. From there it was an easy lift to the top of the fence. With a push they tipped the bundle over and were rewarded with a rustling noise, followed by a low splash.

  “Excellent!” Nilo sounded relieved. “Your flat’s not far, is it? I need to take a huge piss.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Liz parked her car and walked to Hassan Khoury’s well-kept, modest home a block off Green Lanes in Harringay. The door was answered by a slightly built girl who looked to be early in her teen years. The scent of Middle Eastern cooking wafted through the opening.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting your supper. I’m DC Barker. Is your father at home?”

  The girl’s eyes widened and she called back over her shoulder. “Mum, there’s a lady at the door. She says she’s a detective and she wants to talk to Dad.”

  Moments later, a stout middle-aged woman appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She glanced at the proffered warrant card. “I am Mariam Khoury. My husband is not here right now. He should be along soon. May I ask why you need to speak with him?” By this time, an older woman had joined them at the door.

  “Some days ago, a colleague interviewed your husband about some customers at your shop. I have a couple more questions for him.”

  The older woman at once assumed a stern expression. Mariam glanced at her, then returned her attention to Liz. She smiled and stepped aside, giving a welcoming gesture with her hand. “Please come in. We are preparing supper. Would you care to join us?”

  Liz entered. “No, but thank you so much for offering. Do you mind if I wait for Mr. Khoury?”

  The older woman harrumphed. “Hassan mentioned that he had spoken to a detective. I am sure he told you all you needed to know then.”

  Liz assumed a businesslike expression. “We need to clarify something. And you are?”

  The woman pulled herself erect. “I am Leyla Khoury, Hassan’s mother. He will be home soon.” She glanced again at Mariam. “Please wait in here with Sarah. We need to tend to supper.” She turned and beckoned to Mariam, who gave Liz an apologetic glance before returning to the kitchen.

  Liz took a seat on the sofa in the small sitting room. Sarah was perched on a chair across from her, an open notebook on her lap. From the appraising look Sarah was giving her, Liz knew a quiz was coming.

  “I have a school project about what career we might want to have. I’m thinking about being a doctor. I mean, I really want to be one. But we have to write about at least three different choices. I’m wondering if you might help me.”

  “I’ll try.” Liz heard the sound of raised voices coming from the kitchen. An unexpected visit from a copper tended to raise the level of tension in any home. She looked back at Sarah, who clearly had heard the altercation. The girl made a show of shuffling her papers and making sure her pen was working. She looked intently at Liz.

  “I think the first question is, why did you join the police?”

  “Well, when I got out of school, I really didn’t know what I wanted to do. I knew I didn’t want to go to uni right away. I mean, I passed enough A levels, but I was tired of school. You must know how that is sometimes.”

  The argument in the kitchen was continuing, and Sarah spoke louder and more quickly. “I think so. I mean, I like it, but I’m really tired by the end of every term. So what did you do?”

  “I got a job as a shop assistant, but it was so incredibly boring.” Liz chuckled. “Same old stuff, day in day out. And I felt like I wasn’t doing anything. Nothing that mattered, anyway. So I looked around. About that time, the Met was advertising for new officers, especially women, so I thought, why not? I like solving problems. I like feeling that what I do every day makes a difference. It certainly would have a lot of activity, and I couldn’t imagine it being boring.” She paused and listened. The voices from the kitchen were quiet. Apparently some sort of truce had been called until Hassan arrived home.

  Sarah looked relieved at the silence. “Was it? Did it? All that, I mean.”

  Liz smiled. “Yes. I would do it all again. Same way, even.”

  Sarah appeared thoughtful. “I suppose. But it’s dangerous, right? All those gangsters and druggies. If I’m a doctor, I can help people and not have to . . .”

  The front door opened and Hassan Khoury entered. He noticed Liz, and Sarah and stepped into the sitting room.

  Liz heard chairs scraping the floor and footsteps approaching from the kitchen. She stood and offered her hand.

  “I’m DC Liz Barker, from the Met. Sarah was interviewing me about my choice of careers. She’s such a bright girl. Are you Mr. Khoury?”

  “Yes. Hassan Khoury. May I ask why you are here?” Mariam and Leyla had joined them in the sitting room, reinforcing Hassan. Sarah remained in her chair, her wide eyes flitting back and forth between her family and the lone detective.

  “A few days ago, one of our detectives interviewed you about some customers who came to your store one night. Do you recall the conversation?”

  “Yes, clearly. It was a woman, older than you, taller. A chief inspector. Hope, I think her name was. I told her everything I could recall.”

  “Yes, DCI Hope. And I’m sure you did. No problem there.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and removed the picture of Nilo. “Was this young man one of the customers you told DCI Hope about?” She held out the photo. He took it from her and moved closer to a lamp. The two women shuffled behind him, looking over his shoulder. Liz glanced at Sarah, who rolled her eyes.

  Hassan scratched his head. “Perhaps. No, yes. I mean, he’s the young Russian man who was in the store.”

  Liz was looking for a bit more clarity. “So are you sure that he was the young man in the store that Friday night? No question in your mind?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Do you think he’s the man who killed that young girl? I read the news about how you arrested Dr. Willend, then let him go because he’s innocent.”

  Sarah gasped. “Not Dr. Willend! He would never hurt anyone. He’s our friend.” Her eyes grew even wider as she looked plaintively at her father and took his arm. It was clear this was the first she had heard of the murder investigation. She regarded Liz with sudden anger.

  Liz gave her a smile. “Dr. Willend was helping us with our enquiries. And no, he did not have anything to do with the girl’s death. In fact, he is something of a hero. He saved the life of a detective who was having a heart attack.”

  She turned back to Hassan. “Let’s say we would like to ask this young man some questions. We feel he can be of assistance to us.”

  Leyla Khoury reached around and took the photo from Hassan. “I have seen him also. He comes in from time to time. He usually buys cigarettes. But he’s not Russian. He’s from somewhere else over there. Bosnia? No, Serbia. His name is Daniel or something like that.”

  Liz saw an opportunity. “You have an excellent memory, Mrs. Khoury. Do you recall anything else about him? Where he lived, perhaps?”

  “No, although he always came in and left in the same direction.” She paused.

  “And which way was that, Mrs. Khoury?”

  “To the right. The south. Is there anything else you need to know? Our supper is getting cold, if it isn’t already.”

  “No, that’s all for now. Thank you for your help. We may contact you again if we have any more questions.” She handed her card to Sarah. “And if you have any more questions about your school project, you can always contact me at that number.”

  She dialed Elaine before she reached her car. “Chief, Khoury ID’d the photo, and his mother recognized him too. Said she thought his name was Daniel. She remembered that he always comes and goes from the south side of the shop, so he probably lives in that direction.”

  “Good work. I’m still at the nick. Stop by and pick me up.”

  * * *

  Elaine stood back as Liz pressed the button beside the brothel’s door. The electric lock clicked, and the two detectives entered a dimly lit hallway. To the left was a
bare-walled sitting room with a sagging sofa, a table, and two wooden chairs. Ahead of them, the hallway ended in a staircase.

  A young blonde woman stood in the kitchen door beyond the sitting room, appraising them. She walked up to Liz and gazed into her eyes. “Threesomes usually cost extra, but I can give a discount in your case.” Her voice was heavily accented.

  “I’m flattered.” Liz smiled back and showed her warrant card. “But that’s not why we’re here. I’m DC Barker. This is DCI Hope.” The woman backed away and, with a look of disgust, thudded down on one of the chairs.

  Elaine spoke calmly. “Don’t worry. We’re not with the Vice. We’d like to ask a few questions and show you a photograph. What’s your name?”

  The woman remained silent, staring at the floor. Liz walked to the kitchen door and looked in, expecting a punter or another girl. All she saw was a clean and tidy kitchen. At least one of the prostitutes had retained some domestic pride. She returned to the sitting room.

  “DC Barker”—Elaine jerked her head in the direction of the staircase—“why don’t you go find someone else we can talk to?”

  The young woman looked up. “Don’t go up there! It’s private.”

  Elaine snorted. “I’d say we can go anywhere we want right now. You let us in. We weren’t two steps in the door and you propositioned us for sex.”

  “You said you weren’t with the Vice!”

  “We’re not. And as long as you cooperate, we’re only interested in information. If you don’t cooperate, we’ll have to make sure you’re here legally. And then we’ll call the Vice. Did you hear that, Liz? It sounded like a woman cried out. Go check.” Liz turned toward the stairs.

  “Ximena.” The young woman almost spit the name at Elaine.

  “Ximena what?”

  “Abaroa.”

  Elaine sat down in the chair opposite Ximena and leaned forward. “Thank you, Ximena. Cooperation is always more pleasant for everyone. Now. Is anyone else in the house with you?”