Peter listened to Mirjam and the old woman exchange words. He had no idea what they were saying. All talked out, the neighbour retreated into her own apartment.
‘We missed him by half an hour.’
‘Shit.’
‘He had a holdall. She said he was rude, which was unlike him. He told her to mind her own business when she asked if he was going anywhere nice.’
‘Do we call it in? Get people hunting for him?’
‘That’s tipping our hand.’
‘It is. But every minute he runs is a mile he gets further away.’
‘Up to a point. I’ve got an idea.’
‘Do you want to share?’
‘Let’s just say Laura for now.’
The old woman emerged again, holding something. She pushed it into Mirjam’s hand.
Mirjam uncurled her fingers to show him the spare key.
‘Can you smell gas?’ Peter said.
She tilted her head like she was considering it for a moment.
‘Why, I do believe I can,’ she said.
‘Then we better get inside and make sure there isn’t a leak.’
‘It’s the decent thing to do,’ she agreed. ‘Public safety.’
‘You read my mind.’
‘It’s not difficult,’ she said, with a grin and slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
THIRTY-SIX
Maria Bartok looked young.
Mid-teens.
The report put her at twenty-three, which was a lie.
She was a pretty girl, even in the stark glare of the mugshot that never made people look good, but it was painfully obvious she was tired. Her face was washed out.
Living on the streets would do that.
It was a big step forward. She knew she owed Magnus more than just coffee. Maria Bartok was alive. While that meant they were no closer to identifying the burned body in the woods, it also meant they were following a live lead. Presuming she could get Peter in the same room as Maria that changed everything.
But it was still a huge ask.
Three weeks was a long time for a girl like Maria Bartok to disappear.
The chances of facial recognition – no matter how advanced the software they were running in Division – being able to track down her current whereabouts was beyond slim and into the realm of science fiction. It wasn’t as though they could run an endless scan through the system playing mix and match with the traffic cameras and CCTV until they found her on a street corner somewhere. It wasn’t TV.
Even so, having a picture of the young woman made her feel more real, and that made Laura all the more determined to find her.
The crawler she’d created could work with pictures too, but it could only handle very small chunks of data effectively, meaning it needed separate searches and narrow time frames or it would just get hung up in an endlessly incomplete subroutine.
But she didn’t need a huge window.
She had more precise parameters this time. According to the arresting officer Maria was leaving Sweden, which limited the points of exit – she wasn’t going up over the mountains and through the Arctic, for instance. Major ports, Gothenburg, Stockholm, Malmö, were good places to start. And Magnus was right, the Öresund Bridge was the obvious way out, which meant Denmark was her most logical destination, even if it wasn’t her final one.
Laura set a search in motion, looking to compare the facial features of the girl in the mugshot to any arrests carried out in Copenhagen in the last six months. The temptation was to scour the entire database for Denmark arrests, but prostitution was predominantly a big-city problem.
Of course there was nothing to say she’d actually left Sweden, so Laura ran identical searches in the three major port cities. Just because Maria Bartok had told the cops she was leaving the country, didn’t make that the gospel truth.
Once the searches had been put into action she printed off a copy of the girl’s photograph and pinned it to the soundproofing walls that created her office.
It would be good to have a reminder that they were looking for a real girl. Someone’s daughter. No matter what her reason was for leaving Russia and then Estonia, she was running away from something before she was running away from One World, rather than to somewhere.
There was a real difference.
She settled back down in front of her screen and started to compose an email to Peter, bringing him up to speed with what she had found.
She attached the girl’s photograph and was about to hit send when she received a ping on one of her searches.
Rather than an error report, the search had found a match. And it was current. Maria Bartok was still in Sweden. And what was more, she was in custody – not in a prison cell or the custody suite of a police station, which was why it hadn’t shown on her first searches – she was currently sitting in the Marsta detention centre close to Stockholm’s Arlanda Airport.
She was due to be deported the following day.
The Swedes were sending her back to Russia.
Once she was outside the EU, the chance of getting to her and any meaningful answers about what had happened to her were negligible – which wouldn’t help Frankie’s search for her cousin.
She was going to have to set the wheels in motion immediately.
First, she needed to get the Swedes to delay the deportation, which was easier said than done.
Eurocrimes had no real clout with a country’s immigration service – unless Maria was suspected of a pretty major crime, and even then there was no guarantee that would be enough.
She needed to get hold of Peter Ash.
She punched up his number.
He didn’t answer.
Eventually she heard his answerphone message.
‘Call me. I mean right now. Stop listening to this message. Call.’
She didn’t need to say who it was.
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘OK, what are we actually looking for? This is your show,’ Peter said.
‘Anything that gives us an idea of what Kask’s really like when he’s not playing cop. Something that gives us a clue where he might run to.’
‘Works for me.’
‘Glad you approve,’ Mirjam said.
He wasn’t sure what sort of links to One World they’d turn up, but Kask had left in a hurry. That meant he hadn’t had time to clean the place. It wasn’t going to be sanitized, so treating it like a crime scene and hoping they got lucky seemed like the best course of action.
‘Well, let’s play cops and robbers, shall we?’
Peter’s phone rang. He muted it in his pocket without looking at the caller ID.
He’d call back when they were out of Kask’s place.
The living room was spotless. Anally so, it was like a scene from that old Julia Roberts movie, Sleeping with the Enemy. All of the labels were lined up kind of thing. Everything most certainly had its place.
The bedroom on the other hand was almost schizophrenic in the level of mess it presented. Kask had upended drawers and tipped them out onto the bed, throwing everything he needed into his bag. Everything else he’d left where it landed.
The bedside cabinets held little in the way of interest, but Peter spotted what looked like a collector’s coin in a small perspex case. It had the One World logo embossed on it. Beneath the coin he found a selection of literature about the Church, including something that called itself The Pursuit of Happiness, which looked like some kind of guidebook for how to live your life as a better person. He skimmed the pages. It looked like a mix of Jungian and Freudian theory garbled through some sort of plainspeak filter.
‘Anything?’ Mirjam said, looking around the door.
He held up the book. ‘The unholy Bible.’
‘Any sign of a passport?’
‘Not in here. Any luck your end?’
She made a face.
‘In which case, I vote we bug out before your colleagues turn up and start getting the wrong idea.’
He nodded
, pocketing both the book and the coin. ‘OK, here’s what I’m thinking. You’re a member of a cultish group with places all over Europe. You’re up to your neck in the shit and you know you’ve got to get out of town. Where do you go?’
‘To your people,’ Mirjam agreed. It was the only option that made sense.
‘So he’s looking for sanctuary.’
‘Somewhere beyond the reach of the Estonian cops. He’s got a head start, hence the lack of passport here.’
‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘Which means we’re shit out of luck.’
‘Or we’re not.’
‘Laura?’
‘Laura,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll get her to flag his passport. Hell, she could probably revoke it if she put her mind to it. That’ll slow him down at least.’
They closed the door carefully and slipped the key through the neighbour’s mailbox before they headed into the fresh air.
‘OK, so, you get on to Laura, I’ll get you back to the hotel,’ Mirjam said as they got back in the car. As she started up the engine, he saw a marked police car coming around the corner behind them and pulling into the vacant spot they left outside Maksim Kask’s apartment block.
‘A little too close for comfort,’ she said, looking in the rear-view mirror.
‘Could have been worse,’ he said.
It felt like they’d struck out. He wasn’t really sure where they went from here, but he really didn’t feel like saying goodbye to Mirjam Rebane just yet.
It was a more leisurely drive this time, taking all of seventeen minutes.
They didn’t talk much. They’d been close and Kask had slipped between their fingers. That took a little bit of getting over. In Peter’s experience alcohol always helped with that.
They pulled up outside the portico, the doorman coming out to open the passenger door for him.
‘I’m going to be cheeky now,’ he said. ‘But right now there’s not much we can do, and I’m dying for a drink. Want to join me?’
‘I thought I was going to have to hit you over the head with a brick or something,’ she said, and killed the engine, taking the keys out. She tossed the keys to the doorman as they walked up the red carpet to the foyer.
‘What can I get you?’ Peter asked.
‘Room service,’ Mirjam said, walking straight across the foyer to the row of elevators.
They barely got into the room.
Breathing hard, she pushed him up against the wall. He reached for her even as she clawed at his shirt. The door still hadn’t closed. He kicked it closed with a booted foot before he tried to kiss her properly. He wanted it to be good. Right. He cupped his hands around her cheeks, angling her lips up to face him, but she had no interest in tenderness.
Which was a problem, because nothing was going to kill the mood more than him wincing in pain as she worked her hands over his ribs.
It was all he could do not to cry out as she slammed him up against the wall again as he tried to steer her over to the bed.
She was having none of it.
This was all on her terms.
She tore his shirt open and worked her lips down his chest, biting at his nipple as she pulled his T-shirt up over his head.
‘It’ll be easier if you just give in,’ she said.
And he didn’t doubt it for a moment.
Mirjam Rebane knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to tell him.
She was vocal.
Demanding.
And it was good.
Better than good.
For a while at least Peter Ash forgot himself. It had been a long time since he’d managed to get outside his own head. He didn’t even care as she lingered over his scars, feeling her way across those old hurts. She ran her hands across his skin. Insistent. Urgent.
And then she was struggling with his buckle and working the buttons of his jeans while she was still fully dressed.
‘I feel at a bit of a disadvantage here,’ he said.
‘And you’re loving every minute of it,’ she said.
It was hard to argue.
They lay in the aftermath of sex, the sheets tangled around their legs, their doppelgängers sweated into the cotton.
Peter’s clothes were strewn all across the floor. Most of Mirjam’s were at the foot of the bed.
He saw his phone on the red carpet, the message alert light in the corner flashing, and realized he’d forgotten about the call he’d ignored in Kask’s apartment.
He walked naked across the room.
One missed call.
Laura.
He didn’t bother checking the message, he hit redial.
She answered on the first ring.
‘You took your bloody time.’
‘I got tied up,’ which earned a snigger from the woman in his bed.
‘Well, get yourself untied and pack your bag. I need you on a plane in two hours. I’ve found Maria Bartok.’
‘Where?’
‘Stockholm. She’s due to be deported in the morning. I tried to sweet-talk immigration, tell them we needed to speak to her, but no joy. She’s on that plane whether you get to her or not. So, get that perky little behind of yours dressed and get to the airport.’ Laura killed the call, leaving Peter standing there naked, phone in hand.
‘So much for pillow talk,’ Mirjam said.
‘How far is it to the airport?’
‘Twenty minutes.’
‘Then I’ve got an hour to kill. I could go again.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
All the heads turned to face her as Frankie was led into the room.
It was a weird feeling walking into a room where every other woman was dressed in exactly the same ill-fitting clothes as she was. They sat around a large circular table. She noticed that all of the women had a coffee mug in front of them, One World logo facing out towards her. Weirder still was the fact that every single one of them looked at her like she was going to be their new best friend.
‘This is Ceska,’ Elsa said. ‘Her English is great. I’m sure you’ll all make her feel welcome.’
A couple of the girls pushed their chairs out and started towards her, arms open in welcome. Instinctively, she wanted to recoil from the touchy-feely nonsense, but she knew that was a big part in any of these new faiths, so she leaned into it, offering them hugs one after the other. It was very European. It was the kind of thing that made her skin crawl, and always marked her as a little less European than a lot of her counterparts. A few of the hugs were more enthusiastic than the others, just like the smiles.
They were still smiling when Elsa left them to it.
‘I’m Alex,’ one of the smilers said. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Now you’re speaking my language, Alex,’ Frankie said, accepting the final hug.
She was ushered into one of the spare seats at the table.
It didn’t take long to work out some spoke better English than others.
‘So, where are you all from?’ she asked, steering the conversation away from her. She’d figured it was an easy question.
It was greeted by silence.
Alex put a coffee down in front of her.
‘We are all from One World,’ she said, sweetly enough, even if there was a bit of strange echo to it.
‘I meant—’ she started, but Alex interrupted her.
‘I know what you meant, and I told you we are all from One World.’ She turned to the other girls. ‘Don’t worry, this isn’t a test. Ceska’s one of us.’
‘Test?’
‘When we arrive here, one of the first things we’re told is that we’ve to forget everything that happened to us before we came here, good and bad. It’s like we are born again into this life. Here we are all from One World. It is one of the fundamental lessons of The Shepherd. We cannot truly move on to the next level until we accept this. One World is our only family. One World provides everything we need, both spiritually and physically.’
Frankie had heard a watered-down version of the sa
me mantra from Tasha back at the soup kitchen, but out here in the middle of nowhere it had a slightly more sinister edge to it. She wanted to ask how long they’d been there, and maybe mention Irma at some point, but not now. Instead, she asked, ‘Will there be lessons? I think I’m too old to go back to school.’
‘You’ll be just fine,’ Alex promised. ‘After all, you’ve got all of us to look after you. As far as pressing needs, that’s the bathroom through there,’ she said, pointing to the door at one end of the room. ‘There’s a kitchen through there,’ a different door. Frankie nodded. Alex didn’t say what was behind door number three. She guessed it was some sort of interview room.
‘How many staff are there?’
Alex shrugged. ‘There aren’t any staff. There are only the faithful. Different people keep coming and going. There’s Elsa of course, we see her more than most of the others. She’s nice.’ Alex reeled off the name of half a dozen others – Frankie noticed they were all men. ‘And there’s John, of course. The Shepherd. We thought he would have brought you himself, but they told us this morning that he’s not coming until tomorrow.’
There seemed to be some genuine sadness at the news. Frankie noticed that the eyes of a couple of the girls lit up at the mention of his name. He was obviously the king of this little cult.
The girls around the table were undoubtedly sheep, so it was apt.
‘Isn’t he lovely,’ one of them said. They were the first words out of the girl’s mouth since Frankie had entered the room. She hadn’t said so much as hello, even as they were exchanging hugs.
He was charismatic, that was different.
Dangerous men had charisma.
Hitler had charisma, for fuck’s sake, she thought.
It was interesting listening to them talk about him. Because of their disconnect with the past, none of them seemed willing to admit they’d encountered John before they arrived at the compound, despite the fact he’d almost certainly hand-picked them, just like he had Frankie. And like Frankie a couple of them had a little more about themselves than the average frightened runaway. Alex, for one. She possessed slightly more self-awareness and confidence than the others. But even for her there was nothing before One World. The Shepherd existed as part of the now. There was nothing before it.
The Black Shepherd Page 16