Читать книгу Good People - Ewart Hutton - Страница 7

Torches …

The thought of torches brought me out of a fitful sleep. They had to have had light.

I called headquarters in Carmarthen after breakfast. Bryn wasn’t around, but I got someone to check the transcripts of the group’s statements. Torches were mentioned. The story was that the pimp and the girl had made off with them when they did their runner.

But, according to Bryn, there had been no confrontation with the pimp. They had paid over the agreed fee up front when they arrived at the hut, and waited for the good times to roll. The girl had said that she was just going outside to use the minibus to prepare herself. Next thing they knew, both girl and pimp had managed to sneak off in the minibus.

Sneak off? I couldn’t see it. The guy could hardly have gathered up the torches without declaring some sort of intention. No matter how smashed you were, you would know the party was finishing when the lights went out.

It was like the parked minibus, the neatly stacked rubbish in the hut, the tart’s missing telephone number … Disturbances in the details. Their story was frayed at the edges. But the smell coming off it wasn’t bad enough for Jack Galbraith to keep it open. I recalled his parting admonition, warning me off any direct approach to the members of the group.

The upside of having to investigate crap cases in the boondocks that no one else wants to touch is that it gives you the autonomy to invent leads that will take you to wherever you want to be.

Which, on this Monday morning, was the service station outside Newtown where the minibus had filled up with diesel. And where they had managed to add Miss Danielle to the roster.

I showed the manager my warrant card and told him that I wanted to see the security CCTV coverage for Saturday night.

He looked at me warily, and for a moment I thought he was going to tell me that it had already been erased, or that the cameras were only there for show. ‘You people have already been to look at it.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Two big guys? One wide, one Scottish and grumpy?’

‘Yes.’

So Jack Galbraith and Bryn had diverted here on their way home. Taking this seriously. But they hadn’t called me. If there had been anything on the tapes to justify action, they would surely have contacted me.

I persuaded the manager to run the tape for me, and settled down in front of the dirty monitor in the cleaner’s cupboard that he called an office.

I felt a small flutter of anxiety below my sternum. Crazy. I didn’t know this woman. She hadn’t existed for me thirty-six hours ago. And she was probably some junkie hag, back in Cardiff now, just where the story placed her. But we had made the same sort of mistake with Regine Broussard. I wasn’t going to let it happen twice.

There was no denying I was nervous. I was about to get my first sighting of her, and I couldn’t shake off a sense of something that shifted between romance and doom.

I fast-forwarded through the tapes to get to the point where the minibus arrived at the service station. Business was slow. The forecourt was empty when it pulled in, the CCTV image grainy and stuttering. The driver got out and proceeded to fill the tank. No one else got out of the minibus. No other cars there either, so no witnesses to trace through the DVLA computer.

It happened too quickly. She was there just after the driver screwed the fuel cap back on and walked out of shot to go and pay. I rewound and watched again. I hadn’t missed anything. She just appeared, no approach. It was as if the tape had jumped or stalled, editing that segment out.

I peered at the screen. It didn’t help. The picture quality was terrible. A baseball cap. Blonde hair bunched through the gap at the back. I moved in as close as I could, but couldn’t tell if it was the cap that I had found. Her facial features were a blurred soup of pinkish pixels over a knotted scarf tucked into a puffy, red, down-filled jacket. About a hundred and sixty-two centimetres, I gauged from the relation of her shoulders to the roof of the minibus. A large rucksack sagging one shoulder.

She was on the far side of the minibus from the camera. Head bent, as if she was in conversation with someone through the sliding door on the side. She tossed her head back, her face turning into the camera, the smile pronounced enough to register as a big, happy smudge. Then she slid her rucksack off, handed it into the minibus and climbed in after it.

I knew the rest of the story. She didn’t escape.

I had just witnessed a transaction. Something had been negotiated between the woman and some of the men in the minibus. But what? A lift or a fuck?

I went back to the counter. The young cashier glanced up from a magazine. She seemed tired, dark circles under her eyes, bad complexion, the mix of colours in her hair making it look like she had fallen into a chemistry set.

‘Were you working Saturday night?’

‘Some of it,’ she said, an edge of suspicion in her tone and eyes.

‘Can you have a look at this?’ I moved to the side to create enough room for her to get into the room and see the image that I had paused on the screen.

She stared at it blankly.

‘This is at half past nine. Did you see this woman getting into that minibus?’

She shook her head. ‘No. I was clocked off by then.’

‘Who was on duty?’

‘Him.’ She cocked her head towards the manager, who was stacking shelves.

I pulled a face in frustration. The manager had already told me that he hadn’t seen her.

‘Helly Hansen …’

‘You know her?’

‘No. Her jacket – it was a Helly Hansen.’ The covetousness in her voice surprised me.

‘I thought you hadn’t seen her?’

‘I saw her earlier, when she arrived. I’ve always fancied a jacket like that.’

I kept my excitement down. ‘You saw her arrive?’

‘It was busy. Something like half past seven, seven o’clock. People going into town for Saturday night, people coming home from a day out shopping. It got dead quiet after that.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Positive. If that’s the one you’re looking for, that’s when I saw her.’

At least two hours. What was she doing there two hours before the minibus picked her up? It was a blow. It tied in with the group’s story. That it had all been pre-arranged, that the girl had been there waiting for them.

Or did it?

If a pimp had brought her up from Cardiff, why had he arrived so early? Even a deep-city hustler would have to realize that a service station whack in the middle of Baptist nowhere was no place to drop one of his girls off to trawl for casual trade.

‘You should ask Tony Griffiths.’

‘What?’ I did an auditory double take.

‘You want to know about her, you should ask Tony. He was the one what brought her in.’

‘Bryn, she was carrying a rucksack …’ I could hear the plea in my own voice. Sanction this. Please make it so I can take this forward with an official blessing.

There was no response at the other end of the line. I was used to it. Where Bryn Jones was concerned, silence was a communications tool. He was a born moderator, always giving you the chance to reconsider what you had just said to him.

‘A rucksack, Bryn.’

‘I know. We watched the footage.’

‘Hookers don’t carry rucksacks.’

‘DCS Galbraith and I discussed that.’

‘She was hitchhiking.’

‘That’s an assumption. You’ve no evidence to support it.’

‘What would a tart be doing with a backpack?’ I asked, and immediately sensed the flaw in the question.

‘Sex toys, fantasy outfits, sleazy underwear, unguents, cosmetics, spermicidal jelly, Mace, condoms,’ Bryn enumerated, ‘and a big woolly jumper and nice warm tights, because she’s coming out into the cold night air.’

‘Bryn, she looked like a hitchhiker.’

‘That’s an emotive reaction, and you should know better. Face it, on that screen she just looks fuzzy.’

‘Those bastards are lying.’

‘Probably,’ he admitted calmly.

‘You can say that and just walk away from it?’

‘Yes, because we have no evidence of a crime having been committed. And yes, they probably are lying, because it’s normal behaviour when white middle-class males get discovered in flagrante delicto with a prostitute. It’s a function of the squirm reaction.’

‘Did Emrys Hughes hand in a bag?’

‘What kind of a bag?’

‘A carrier bag. I found it in the minibus. It had some aftershave and designer underpants in it.’

‘I expect he gave it back to whichever of the men had left it behind.’

‘Bryn, the bag was from Hereford.’

‘So? People travel to Hereford to shop.’

‘None of those bastards that I saw walking down that hill would have bought those things. They don’t fit.’

‘You’re speculating again.’

I paused, bringing myself back under control. ‘What if I could find the person who gave her the lift to the service station?’

He was silent for a moment. ‘Are we talking about a pimp?’

‘No.’

‘We would be interested in that.’ He paused. ‘DCS Galbraith has asked me to pass a message on to you.’

Which meant that Jack Galbraith knew that I would be calling Bryn. ‘And what would that be, sir?’ I asked, switching to formal.

‘Don’t blow this up into something it isn’t in an attempt to climb back on board the big ship.’

‘No, sir.’ I had a sudden flash of my fingertips clutching the gunnels with Jack Galbraith’s polished brown brogues poised over them. ‘I have to go, sir,’ I said, catching sight of the truck in my rear-view mirror. I cut the connection and got out of the car as it approached, weaving to avoid the worst of the potholes in the lay-by. A small truck with a standard cab, but an unusually high-sided, open-topped rear.

The driver’s window rolled down. I assumed that the head that poked out belonged to Tony Griffiths. ‘I got a call from the office to meet someone here.’

I held up my warrant card. ‘They said that this was the best place to intercept you on your route.’

He looked at me suspiciously. ‘I don’t know you.’ He glanced down at my warrant card and scowled. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

I beamed up at him. ‘My parents embraced the spirit of Europe.’

He wasn’t impressed. ‘I don’t remember being the witness to any incident.’

‘I’ll come up,’ I said, swinging round the front of the truck before he had a chance to say that we were fine the way we were. I climbed into the passenger’s side of the cab. It was overheated, despite the open window, and smelled of something stale and bad that I couldn’t put my finger on.

His look of suspicion shaded off into new knowledge. He pointed a finger at me, pleased with himself. ‘I heard about you. You’re the city cop they shifted up here. What did they catch you doing?’ He grinned wickedly. ‘Kiddy-fiddling, was it – with a name like that?’

I overcame the urge to tip his face into the steering-wheel boss. I needed him.

‘What’s this about?’ he asked, still grinning, cranking the window back up. He was wearing a high-visibility yellow tabard over stained and crumpled blue overalls. He had dark oily hair swept back behind his ears, small but smart brown eyes, and a dark complexion that was accentuated by a heavy shadow of beard growth. The way he sat hunched over the steering wheel gave him the appearance of a small man, but the shirt and overall sleeves rolled up past his elbows revealed hairy and powerful forearms.

‘You’re not in any trouble, Tony. I just need your help,’ I said reassuringly, forcing a smile, keeping it friendly. ‘Saturday night, someone tells me that you might have dropped a female hitchhiker off at a service station on the Llanidloes road outside Newtown.’

‘I don’t pick up hitchhikers,’ he came back at me, deadpan. ‘We’re told not to. It’s against company policy.’

I smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone.’

‘And my last drop was eleven o’clock Saturday morning. Bachdre Kennels, half an hour away from my place.’

‘You were seen, Tony. Seven, half past seven, Saturday night.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got a motorbike. A trials bike, it doesn’t take passengers.’

He was lying. But why? He didn’t look like a man who would give a toss for company rules.

‘My only concern is for the woman.’

He held my gaze and shook his head.

‘You were seen with her.’

He just shrugged; he knew that he didn’t have to give me any more. But he didn’t smile. That was important. He wasn’t cocky about it. I looked for the natural line of leverage.

‘I’m worried about her, Tony. She got into a minibus with six drunk guys, and she hasn’t been seen since.’

He shook his head and dropped eye contact. ‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

He wasn’t going to tell me. What had he been doing on Saturday that he did not want me to know about?

I spat on my palm and laid it flat on the seat between us. An old Ligurian trick of my father’s. Sometimes it worked, impressing strangers with the deep scope and breadth of my ouvrier honesty. ‘This goes no further, I promise you. Anything you tell me stays here. Stays strictly between us.’

He glanced down at my hand, and then up at me with a look that told me he had been around too many gypsies in his time to fall for that one. ‘You’re a cop,’ he stated simply.

‘I can be trusted,’ I replied earnestly.

A knowing smile split his lips.

‘What can I do to prove that?’ I asked, still hoping that rhetoric and persuasion were going to carry me. Not quite catching the shift in his concentration. Not realizing that the bastard had actually started to think about it.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious. I promise – you can trust me.’

‘No. About proving it?’

‘Does that mean you did give the woman a lift?’

He grinned. ‘You haven’t earned my trust yet.’

‘How do I do that?’

He held up a mobile phone. ‘You know what this is?’

‘It’s a mobile phone.’

‘It’s also a camera.’ He smiled as my expression turned puzzled, and inclined his head towards the rear of the truck. ‘Do you know what I carry in the back there?’

He lowered the tailgate. I understood then why the sides of the truck were so high. To stop people seeing the dead meat.

‘Farm casualties,’ he explained. ‘We get paid to pick them up and dispose of them.’

The components of the pile in the back of the truck were small in number, but they made a big gruesome bundle. Two dead sheep tangled on top of a black-and-white cow, which lay on its side, legs splayed out, as stiff as driftwood. The harness and wire cables from a winch curled over the grouping. The smell was noxious. An ammoniacal reek from stale urine, combined with lanolin, and the start of decomposition. The sawdust that had been used to cover the truck bed had absorbed unimaginable fluids and turned to gelatinous slurry.

‘Jesus …’ I gagged involuntarily.

He laughed. ‘You get used to it. These ones are fresh.’

I had no intention of getting used to it. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

‘This is the deal.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘You’ve got to shag the cow.’

I waited for the punchline. It took me a minute to realize that it had already arrived. He was serious. ‘You can’t really expect me to …’ The line was too absurd to finish.

‘I don’t expect you to do anything. You want something from me. You need to pay a price.’ He pointed at the rear end of the cow with his mobile phone. ‘I want a shot on this which makes it look like you’re fucking that thing.’

‘Are you some kind of pervert?’

‘No, I just want to be safe. I need a cast-iron guarantee that if I tell you things you have a real good reason not to spread them. I can’t think of a better reason than a picture like that.’

‘I couldn’t do it.’

‘That’s your choice. It’s all voluntary, Sergeant Capaldi.’

Oh fuck … We had stopped pretending. We now both knew that he had a story to tell me. ‘Why are you making me this offer?’

He thought about it for a moment. ‘I want to help the girl.’

‘Do it for her then,’ I entreated.

‘No. I need to keep myself covered.’

‘You want win–win?’

‘Fucking right I do.’

I shook my head slowly. It had to stop here. She was a stranger. She would have moved on, totally oblivious of my search for her. She didn’t need any kind of sacrifice. Bryn Jones was right, no crime had been reported, no one was missing. She would be back in Cardiff by now. Where I should really be, instead of discussing necrophilic bestiality with a twisted hayseed under a too big sky. It was time to let go.

He lifted the tailgate tentatively. ‘Okay?’ he asked. ‘I drive off now and you leave me alone?’

I started to nod. ‘Tell me,’ I blurted. ‘One thing …’

He stared at me.

‘Was she a prostitute?’

I thought that he wasn’t going to answer.

‘No.’

Another flash on Regine Broussard.

Oh fuck …

I drew the line at dropping my trousers. We had a brief, heated, artistic disagreement over that, until I persuaded him that it could all be done by inference. By posture, camera angle, and the loose ends of my belt drooping free.

He had the grace to lend me a pair of heavy-soled rubber boots. The kind that abattoir workers wear when they hose the crud off the floor. Crouched there, arms splayed, trying to get into position while he shouted directions, I must have looked like some monumental fool.

Fool … ? I was kidding myself. Substituting vanity for the bigger picture. Which had me flying way off the outer scale of foolishness by simulating penetrative sex on the rear end of a dead sideways cow.

Back in the truck cab, trying to warm up, he wanted to show me the images.

I shook my head. ‘If those pictures ever see the light of anyone else’s day, I will arrange it so you have your balls cut off. And believe me, I can do it. I have the contacts. I’m a cop, and I’m half Italian.’

‘Don’t worry, they’re just my insurance.’

I held a Bad Cop stare on him for a moment to underscore the threat. ‘So, what were you doing wrong on Saturday afternoon?’

He braced himself for it, still not comfortable with confessing to me, despite the huge security deposit he had just obtained. ‘I was using the truck to run some deer carcasses for a couple of mates.’

‘Poached?’

He shrugged. ‘I was just doing the delivering.’

‘You bastard!’ I exploded. ‘You put me through that depraved fucking charade to cover up a bit of poaching.’

He shot me an aggrieved pout. ‘My mates take trust very seriously. The man whose land the deer came from is a vindictive bastard. And I was using the company’s truck.’

‘Poaching.’ I snorted dismissively.

‘You seemed to think it was worth it at the time.’

He was right. I had accepted the price. I calmed myself down. ‘Where to?’

‘A butcher down on the Radnor, Herefordshire border.’

‘Where did you pick the woman up?’

He looked at me, surprised that I didn’t want more detail on the butcher. ‘On my way home. Near Painscastle. I was sticking to the back roads.’

‘Show me.’ I flicked through his road atlas to get to the right page. He pointed. It was a minor road that strung a line of non­descript villages together. ‘Is this where she had started from?’

‘No, she’d come from somewhere outside Hereford. She’d got sidetracked, a lift from a farmer who’d left her there. The road was quiet, she was lucky that I came along.’

Hereford again. I tucked the reference away.

‘Where did she want to go?’

He grinned. ‘Would you believe Ireland?’

I contained my surprise. ‘Was she Irish?’

‘No, she was foreign.’

‘What kind of foreign?’

He pulled a face. ‘She told me, but I didn’t get it. I didn’t want to keep asking in case she thought I was thick. It wasn’t a common foreign country though. I would have got something like France, or Germany, or Poland.’

‘How well did she speak English?’

‘A bit of an accent and a few words the wrong way round, but pretty good really.’

‘Did she tell you her name?’

He pulled his contrite face again. ‘She told me, but I didn’t really get that either. It was something foreign, beginning with an “M”.’

‘Can you describe her?’

He nodded. ‘She was a real smiler. Big high cheeks that puffed out when she grinned. Her face was small but kind of chubby. Not fat or anything. Just …’ He searched for the description. ‘Just nice.’

She sounded Slavic. Or Scandinavian with the blonde hair? ‘Did she say why she was going to Ireland?’

‘To meet up with her boyfriend. I don’t know whether she was talking about an Irish lad, or a boy from her own country who was working over there. She knew that she had to get a ferry to Dublin, and she would be met there.’

A boyfriend. The fit went in. The carrier bag from Hereford with the aftershave and the underpants. Presents for the beloved. The worry was that she would not have left those behind lightly.

‘Not quite the straight-arrow run to Holyhead where you dropped her, was it, Tony?’ I said, smiling to soften the accusation.

He looked hurt. ‘That wasn’t my fault. I even suggested taking her into Newtown to catch a train. It was already dark by then. But she didn’t like that idea.’

‘Too expensive?’

‘I don’t think that was it. She had already asked me if I knew how strict the Immigration people were at the ferry port. I got the impression that she thought there might be too many people asking questions on a train.’

‘The service station was her choice?’ I asked, letting him hear my doubt.

‘Yes. We checked the map. She wanted to stick to the country roads, she said.’

‘You liked her?’ I asked.

The question puzzled him. He looked at me warily, wondering where I was going with this. ‘I liked what I saw of her,’ he answered guardedly.

‘Weren’t you concerned for her? It’s night now. The dead of winter. She’s a stranger, and you’ve left her in the middle of nowhere.’

He bristled. ‘It wasn’t the middle of nowhere. I left her where it was light, and where she could buy stuff if she needed it. I even bought her chocolate. And water. I’ve never bought a bottle of fucking water in my life before. And I went back.’

‘You went back?’

‘Everyone was coming into town at that time of night. I reckoned she wouldn’t be able to get a lift. So I gave her about half an hour to get fed up, and then I went back to see if she wanted somewhere to stay for the night.’ He held up his hands as if anticipating a protest. ‘Just a bed, mind you. I didn’t have any other intentions.’

‘But she turned you down?’

‘No. She wasn’t there. She’d already gone.’

This rocked me. ‘Tell me, Tony, what time would this be?’ I asked very carefully.

He thought about it. His head moving slightly with the enumeration process. ‘About eight o’clock. No later than quarter past. I hung around for a while to make sure that she hadn’t just gone for a bit of a wander.’

It made no sense. Her destiny lay with that minibus one and a half hours later. So where had she disappeared to?

‘Sure you don’t want to have a look?’

I turned round. He was holding the phone up tauntingly, a big grin on his face. I had counted on him not being able to resist it.

I snatched the phone out of his hand.

A split second of jaw-dropped surprise, and then he wailed, ‘You bastard –’ Making a lunge for it.

I held him back with my forearm, the other hand holding the phone up out of his reach.

‘Give that back to me, you fucker!’ He was snarling now, pushing hard, trying to snatch at the phone in my hand. He was straining, twisted out of balance. I dipped the forearm I was using to restrain him, and used my elbow to chop him hard in the groin.

A huge gasp of air fused into a groan and he went slack. For a moment all he could do was stare at me reproachfully, mouth wide open like a betrayed carp.

He shook his head. ‘I should have known better than to trust a fucking cop.’

‘You didn’t trust me,’ I corrected him. ‘You tried using extortion. I gave you my word, and that’s all you need.’ I opened the door and backed out of the cab holding up the phone. ‘I’m impounding this on suspicion that it’s been used to take pornographic images.’