Carnal Acts (8 page)

Morrie Sutton and Nathan Gray were waiting for Joni on the third floor of Corham General.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ DS Gray said quickly. He was fair-haired and
blue-eyed
with a reputation as a skirt chaser, though he’d never had the nerve to try anything with Joni.

‘What do you think about the fact that this is now a murder case?’ DI Sutton said, smiling slackly. ‘
My
murder case.’

Joni eyed him with distaste. ‘You’ve got even more reason to go after the woman who carried out the attacks. Despite the fact that she’d have been forced into sex slavery and was probably defending herself.’

The two male detectives avoided her gaze. She’d heard Gray refer to her as ‘Pam’ rather than the more common ‘Jackie’, but that didn’t bother her. Pam Grier had done serious damage to numerous men in her movies, not that Joni enjoyed them.

‘Are you going to tell me what you found in the safe?’

DI Sutton nodded. ‘Passports for all the girls, including the missing one – Suzana Noli is her name. They all came in legally through Heathrow last October. The guy who died was called Leka Asllani. I asked DC Andrews to run him and the rest of them through HOLMES and the other digital databases.’

‘What are the other women’s names?’ Joni asked.

They stared at her.

‘I’m going to talk to them again. Can I have copies of the passport pages with their photos so I can match them to their names?’

Sutton nodded without enthusiasm. ‘In the meantime, you and I need to talk to the surviving pimp.’ He handed her an open passport in a clear plastic bag. ‘Blerim Dost – Jesus, these people have crazy names. Born in some godforsaken hole called Bajram, 19 November 1976. Like all of them, he’s got a ninety-day visitor’s visa that expired in January. He probably has
documentation in other names – most of the pimps and hard men do – but it wasn’t in the house.’

Joni stepped back as a nurse hurried down the corridor. ‘What else did you find?’

Morrie Sutton grinned. ‘Over ten grand in well-used notes and a load of credit cards that are probably clones.’

Joni looked at the two of them impatiently. ‘I can tell there was more.’

Nathan Gray held up another plastic bag, this one containing small sachets of white powder.’

‘There was over a kilo of this. The rest’s at the lab, though there’s a skeleton staff till tomorrow. Cocaine, and it’s pretty heavily cut.’

Joni decided against asking how he’d ascertained that. Gray didn’t give the impression of being an innocent when it came to drugs.

DI Sutton took the bag from him. ‘Oh, and there were three sets of knuckle dusters, all encrusted with blood, two combat knives and … what else, Nate?’

The DS grinned. ‘Three Sig P239 9mm semi-automatic pistols and twenty-four full eight-round clips. The lab will check them for prints and draw up ballistic profiles.’

Joni knew that Nathan Gray was a guns freak who spent his summer holidays in countries where pistol shooting was legal. That didn’t mean she was going to encourage him. She’d seen what guns could do in London. One of the big advantages of working for Pofnee was that she hadn’t come up against firearms. Until now.

‘See if you can borrow a photocopier and run off DI Pax’s copies of the hookers’ passports, lad.’ Morrie Sutton felt the intensity of Joni’s gaze. ‘What? That’s what they are.’

‘Sex slaves is a more accurate term. All right, how do you want to play this?’

‘Simple. I ask a question, you translate it, then you translate the scumbag’s answer. If there is one, which I’m not holding my breath for.’

‘Sure you don’t want a fag first?’ Joni asked. ‘Good, because I’m pressed for time.’ She had no intention of acting as Morrie’s interpreter. How was he to know what she said to the Albanian? ‘You brought the coke to loosen his tongue, I presume.’

Sutton nodded, turning away.

‘I presume DCI Rutherford knows about these developments,’ Joni called after him.

‘Aye, he does. Wouldn’t do to keep the senior investigating officer in the dark, would it, lass?’

Joni went after him, biting her tongue. He was nothing compared with the worst of the Met’s male officers, but he still irritated her. Which, of course, was exactly what he wanted.

Michael Etherington’s fishing trip was a waste of time. The sun brightened even more quickly than he expected and he gave up at midday. He went first to his own house to drop off his fishing tackle. It was a couple of miles west of the one he’d shared with Rosie and Nick after his son and wife died. He told himself he was doing that to support his daughter-in-law and grandson, but he knew that was only part of the story. The fact was, he missed Christine badly and didn’t like spending the night in the house they’d shared. It had been his refuge and he thought of it daily when he was on active duty abroad; his wife too.

Rosie was preparing lunch. She gave him a sad smile. ‘Nick still hasn’t come down.’

He touched her shoulder. It was fleshless like much of her body. She’d always been slim, but since Alistair’s death she’d become a wraith. The curious thing was she’d never given the impression that she cared much for his son, especially not when the drink took him over. She was an unfathomable woman.

‘I’ll go and talk to him.’

Nick was still under the covers.

‘Bloody farce,’ Michael said. ‘You were right not to come. Not a bite all morning.’ He sat down on the bed. ‘Tell you what. How about we go up to Favon Hall in the afternoon. You can drive – you need the practice. We’ll put your bike in the back so you can come back under your own steam. I don’t want to hang around like a wallflower.’

Nick’s head appeared. ‘Thanks, Gramps. I’ll call Evie.’

Michael winked. ‘Why not make it a surprise? In my experience women like surprises.’

‘OK.’ Nick smiled tentatively. ‘She never goes out anyway.’

The trip north was smooth enough. Nick was a decent driver but, to his embarrassment, had failed his test six months earlier. He was calm enough and his reactions were good. According to the examiner, he had pulled out twice without checking his mirror. Michael had been surprised by that, as well as concerned. Did his grandson’s usually imperturbable exterior conceal roiling depths like those that had done for Alistair?

‘Well done, lad’ he said, as Nick turned into the gate of the Favon estate. A long, tree-lined drive led to the Hall. ‘Smooth as … I don’t know what.’

‘An attack by Julius Caesar?’

Michael laughed. Clearly the prospect of seeing Evie had restored the boy’s spirits. He looked at the buildings ahead.

Favon Hall had been built by the first lord in the 1760s. It was a rather ugly Palladian block. Behind it rose an older building, a medieval tower that had often been besieged by Scottish raiders under the original owners. The last scion of that family, an unmarried twenty-year-old, had been killed at Culloden, enabling the newly ennobled Favon to buy the tower and a large area of surrounding land, both arable and moor, at a bargain price.

Nick pulled up by the wide staircase that led to the main entrance, beside a black Mazda sports car.

‘Looks like Victoria’s home,’ Michael said. ‘I’ll come in for a word.’

Nick was already out of the door, bag of books in his hand. There was no doubt he was passionate about the girl. Michael followed him, happy that his grandson was experiencing love but worried about the young people’s future together. And they were very young…

Lady Favon answered the door herself.

‘Nicholas!’ she said, her meticulously painted red lips parting in a smile that was more than welcoming. ‘What a lovely surprise! I’m so pleased to see you.’ She looked past him. ‘Hello, Michael. Babysitting?’

‘Good afternoon, Victoria,’ the major general said coolly, running his eye over the viscountess. She was dressed in a
well-cut
white blouse and a black skirt that hung just above the knee. As ever, her heels were high and her legs sheathed in black stockings or tights, he couldn’t tell the difference. Knowing Victoria, he’d bet on the former. ‘Nick would like to do some revision with Evie.’

‘Oh, never mind her,’ Victoria said, smoothing back strands of blonde hair. ‘She’s got her nose in the family secrets as usual. Come and sit down for a minute, the pair of you. I haven’t had two good-looking men in the drawing room for weeks.’

Nick gave his grandfather a reluctant look and then followed him and their hostess across the black-and-white tiled floor. Portraits of Andrew Favon’s ancestors hung in the hall and up the marble staircase, their faces bland but their eyes piercing and acquisitive.

Victoria opened the double doors that led into a spacious room with French windows and surprisingly chintzy decor. The furniture was a mixture of faded heirlooms and incongruous modern additions.

‘Here, Nicholas,’ Lady Favon said, sitting on a floral-covered settee and patting the cushion next to her. ‘Tell me what you’ve been up to.’

Michael watched from across the low table as Victoria held her gaze on his grandson. Although she must have been forty
now, she was still a striking woman – if anything, even more attractive than when she was younger. Her figure was stunning.

‘Nothing much,’ he muttered.

‘What did you get up to last night?’ Victoria asked, lighting a cigarette with deft movements.

The question brought red patches to Nick’s cheeks. ‘Well, I…’

‘He dressed up like a traffic light,’ Michael said, in attempt to distract the siren.

‘Gramps,’ Nick complained.

Lady Favon laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, giving the older man a conspiratorial look. ‘I’m sure we’ve all done much worse.’

I’m sure
you
have, Michael thought. Victoria’s reputation was…

‘Nick!’ Evie came through the open doors faster than someone using an arm crutch would be expected to do. Tall, slim and with short brown hair, she was attractive, but not in her mother’s class. She sat down beside the young man and kissed him on the cheek. ‘What a lovely surprise!’

Michael couldn’t suppress a smile. Victoria looked put out as the youngsters started to talk to each other in low voices.

‘We’re going to the library,’ Evie said, standing up in a practised move that still made her frown. ‘I’ve found the most amazing story.’

‘I’m sure,’ Victoria said icily. ‘Have … fun.’ Her eyes were fixed on Nick as the pair headed away.

‘Andrew not around?’ Michael said, breaking the silence that ensued.

‘What? Oh, he’s out on the moors with Dan Reston. Something to do with sheep.’

Michael stood up. ‘I’ll be off then. Nick’s coming home on his bike. I’ll leave it by the steps.’

Victoria Favon nodded, the smile returning to her lips.

‘No more than twenty minutes, please,’ the female doctor said.

Morrie Sutton brushed past her into the private room. A heavily built constable was posted outside on an inadequate chair.

‘Look at this piece of shit,’ Sutton said.

Joni took in the patient, tubes leading to him from drips and from him to transparent bags hooked on the side of his bed, one half-full of dark urine and the other collecting bright blood. The Albanian was small, the skin on his face tight, but his eyes were shiny and malevolent. She felt a frisson run up her spine. He hadn’t been secured to the bed as the doctors said he was in a weakened state post-surgery. Besides, he hadn’t yet been charged, given the reluctance of the women from the brothel to incriminate him.

DI Sutton held up the bag of drugs. ‘What have you got to say about this, you arsehole?’

If Blerim Dost understood English, he kept it to himself. His eyes moved to Joni and she read the race hatred in them. Taking a deep breath, she opened her notebook.

‘I think we’d better do this properly, Morrie,’ she said. ‘Shall I ask him to confirm his name?’

‘Oh, all right.’

Joni spoke in Italian. The Albanian listened, but didn’t respond. Sure that he understood, she motioned Sutton over and took the bag containing the open passport.

‘Mr Dost,’ she said, ‘this proves your identity. Or at least the one you used to enter the country. Your visa has now expired.’

Nothing – not even a blink.

‘Evidence we have found suggests you’ve been involved in operating a brothel.’

The cold grey eyes stayed on her, but the patient didn’t speak.

‘Tell him about his pal,’ Morrie said.

Joni nodded but did not immediately comply. First she asked
Dost what he had to say about the women in the house. When he kept silent, she asked who had attacked him and why. Then she took the rest of the material from her colleague. The sample of drugs and photographs of the weapons found in the safe and the piles of bank notes were held up in front of him. Still no reaction.

Joni smiled to put him at ease, then leaned closer. ‘Leka Asllani,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that he died from the wounds he received.’

That did elicit a response. The Albanian’s eyes opened wide, but still he remained silent.

‘Tell him I’m going to rip the tube from his cock and wrap it round his neck if he doesn’t talk!’ Morrie yelled.

Blerim Dost was way ahead of him. He pulled the bag of urine off the bedstead and looped the catheter tube round Joni’s neck, dragging her closer as he tightened it. Urine dripped on to her blouse.

‘I kill her,’ he said in English. ‘If you not sit over there, I stop her breathing.’

Sutton took a few steps backwards, staring at Joni as she struggled for air. The Albanian may have been slight, but he was strong. Although there was some give in the tube, he reduced that by threading it over and under his fingers.

‘Now, black bitch, you stand up.’ Dost clenched his teeth as Joni complied, the stitches in the wound in his abdomen straining. ‘We go to table there.’

Joni looked out of the corner of her eye. She could see a stainless steel tray with dressings, bandages and a pair of pointed scissors on it. The latter was what her captor was after. The tube was hard for him to handle, especially in motion, but the scissors would be a lot easier, enabling him to threaten her with instant death if he held them to her jugular. She had no doubt he would.

So she moved her left shoulder slightly, let the muscles across her body go slack – earning herself a gasp of air as Dost
involuntarily released the pressure on her throat – and threw him over her shoulder. It was the first time since the stabbings and subsequent operations that she’d dared to try a judo move – the tackle on Nick Etherington on the riverbank was much less of a strain. The Albanian screamed as the catheter was ripped from his penis, urine spraying in all directions.

‘Jesus Christ!’ Sutton said, as Joni cuffed the Albanian to the bed, leaving him on the floor.

She unwound the tube from her neck and stood up. ‘You’d better get the doctor,’ she said. She squatted down by Dost, who was now whimpering, his free hand over his groin. ‘You like hurting women, don’t you?’ she said. ‘Now two of us have shown you what we can do. Wait till you meet a woman called Dickie.’

Her attacker stared blankly at the wall.

‘This is all going to get official – lawyers, recorded interviews, jail. You have very little time to talk freely.’ She loomed over his face. ‘Who’s your boss? He’s in Newcastle, isn’t he? Tell me his name and I’ll do what I can for you.’

Blerim Dost looked back at her and then laughed, before grimacing in pain. Blood dripped steadily from the dressings on his abdomen.