Death in a Far Country (13 page)

‘Well, let’s give Paolo Minelli a fright, shall we?’ Thackeray said. ‘And then we’ll tackle young Okigbo. It looks as if he’s lied about knowing the dead girl, and in the absence of any other suspects, that makes him number one in my book. Unless he’s got a very convincing alibi indeed.’

Paolo Minelli had been summoned from the training ground to meet DCI Thackeray and Sergeant Kevin Mower and did not look best pleased about it when he came into his own office, hot and sweaty and wearing a muddy tracksuit and trainers. He glanced at the two officers who were sitting waiting for him, and then closed the door to the outer office, where a secretary was sitting at her desk with an ill-concealed expression of curiosity on her face. He tried to smooth down his dishevelled hair irritably and wiped his face with a tissue.

‘Gentlemen?’ he said, when the officers had introduced themselves. ‘What is so urgent that I have to leave my team just now?’

Mower took the artist’s impression of the dead girl from his file and offered it to Minelli.

‘We’re are investigating the death of this young woman,’ he said. ‘And we have reason to believe that she was at a party for your team members a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember seeing her?’

Minelli wiped his brow again, still breathing heavily, and took his seat behind his desk before taking the picture from Mower and studying it for a moment in silence.

‘No,’ he said at length. ‘I don’t know this girl. I’ve never seen her before.
Certo
.’

‘This would be the party two Saturdays ago at the country club, after you won your game against Rochdale and Okigbo scored the winning goal.’

Minelli shrugged as eloquently as only an Italian can, and spread his hands wide.

‘I remember the party,’ he said. ‘Of course, we had a good win and the team were excited that evening. What is the phrase? Over the moon? But I didn’t see this girl.’

‘Could she have been with Okigbo? Is she his girlfriend?’ Mower asked. ‘A black girl? I don’t suppose there are too many black girls at your parties.’

‘I don’t think OK has a girlfriend. He’s not been in Bradfield very long.’ Minelli shrugged again. ‘I didn’t see her, but I spent a lot of time at that party with the chairman in another room. We had a lot to talk about.’

‘It’s been suggested to us that girls are sometimes provided for your team members, invited to parties for their entertainment, as you might say. And that you might be doing the providing,’ Thackeray broke in harshly, although he had asked Mower to take the lead in the interview. Mower glanced at his boss anxiously, wondering if there was something going on here he did not know about. He was certainly offering Minelli more information than he would have done himself at this stage in the interview.

Paolo Minelli bunched his fists on the desk in front of him for a moment, gazing at Thackeray’s disdainful face, before he replied, his features contorted with anger. He launched into what the police officers guessed was a string of Italian expletives before switching back to English.

‘That is an outrageous suggestion,’ he said, almost choking
with emotion. ‘You make it sound as if I provide prostitutes for them?’

‘The suggestion’s not true, then?’ Thackeray persisted.

‘Is not true,’ Minelli said. ‘I don’t know where these girls came from or who they might be. But you should be aware, Inspector. I have enemies here who would like to get rid of me, who have other plans for the club. I know that. I didn’t realise they would go this far.’ He took a deep breath to calm himself before he continued more quietly.

‘You know what young men are like, especially young men who have plenty of money and lots of testosterone. There are always girls around, just like round a pop group. It is natural. But I am their coach, not their father. I don’t interfere in their private life unless their private life is interfering with their work. Drink, drugs, girls… You know the problems. But at the moment we are quite lucky here. I do not have any difficulties with the players at the moment.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Thackeray said drily. ‘But I think you may be running into problems with Okigbo. He was allegedly seen with this girl, and now she’s dead. Show Mr Minelli the picture of the other girl we’re looking for, Kevin.’ Mower did as he was told, but again Minelli, after staring for a moment at the blurred CCTV image, shook his head angrily.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen her before either. But these young men – there are lots of girls, you know? They come and go.’ He smiled faintly at the two officers, as if soliciting their sympathy, and glanced away again, wiping his brow, when they did not respond.

‘Black girls?’ Mower asked bluntly.

‘Not so many black girls,’ Minelli said. ‘But half the team
are unmarried. The girlfriends come and go. What do you expect?’

‘So it would surprise you to know that it has been suggested that these two girls are prostitutes, call girls, apparently, who were brought to the party by a couple of men?’ Thackeray said.

Minelli took a sharp breath and visibly paled beneath his tan.

‘It would surprise me, yes,’ he said. ‘I told you. I know nothing of girls like that.’

‘You wouldn’t expect your players to make use of services of that sort?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Minelli said. ‘There is a risk, a risk of diseases… I would be worried about that, yes. Who suggested this, anyway? Who is telling you all these lies?’

Thackeray smiled grimly.

‘You know I can’t tell you that, Mr Minelli,’ he said. ‘But the source is reliable.’

He looked at the coach bleakly for a moment.

‘Your own partner is Angelica Stone, is that right?’

Minelli nodded, with what appeared to be genuine surprise.

‘Is that relevant, Inspector,’ he asked faintly.

‘Only in so far as she is the sister of Stephen Stone, who has come to the attention of the police at one time or another, in the context of prostitution.’

‘Steve?’ Minelli said, looking astonished. ‘He is Angelica’s brother, but I hardly know him… He’s a businessman, as far as I know, a legitimate businessman. He owns clubs. What has Steve Stone got to do with any of this?’

‘Probably nothing at all,’ Thackeray said. ‘It may just be a
coincidence that he was at another party for your players at the West Royd club last weekend. Nothing to do with these girls at all?’

‘That is where I saw you, too,’ Minelli said suddenly, as if something that had been bothering him had suddenly fallen into place. Thackeray nodded but did not elaborate.

‘Right, that’s fine then, Mr Minelli,’ Thackeray said, sounding suddenly uninterested and conscious of Mower’s worried look. He guessed that he had probably gone further than he should down that avenue. ‘And you can confirm again that you have never seen either of these girls.’

‘Never,’ Minelli said fervently.

‘So all that remains is for me to ask you to arrange meetings for us with your team members, starting with Okigbo, Dave Peters and Lee Towers.’

Minelli gazed at Thackeray for a moment, looking appalled.

‘All the team?’ he asked, almost choking on the words.

‘Eventually,’ Thackeray said, his expression implacable. ‘But those three young men first, starting with Okigbo. This afternoon if possible.’

‘This will get into the papers,’ Minelli said, licking his dry lips. ‘This place is like a – what do you call it? – a sieve?’

‘I dare say it will,’ Thackeray said. ‘There’s very little I can do about that.’

Back outside the stadium, where a few desolate looking fans were queuing in the rain in the hope of still getting a ticket for the match against Chelsea the following week, Mower glanced at his boss with curious eyes.

‘You were pushing it a bit with the Steve Stone issue,
weren’t you, guv?’ he asked.

‘Steve Stone and the possible presence of prostitutes in the same place would make anyone wonder,’ Thackeray said shortly as they walked back to the car. ‘We know he was involved three years ago and got away with it. Why should anything have changed. After the balls-up by the CPS he probably thinks he’s invincible.’

‘Do you want to talk to him?’

‘Not yet,’ Thackeray said. ‘You’re right. If we move on Stone we’ll have to be extra sure we’ve got something very solid to go on. I don’t want another case chucked back at me for lack of evidence. But if he was at one Bradfield United party, when I saw him, he might well have been at the previous one, when these girls were also seen. So we can legitimately ask him about that. But first we’ll talk to these young footballers. If some of them were in bed with the murdered girl and her friend once, they could well have been with them again the night our victim died. They could easily have arranged to see them again. It’s the only real lead we’ve got so far.’

‘Did you believe Minelli was as squeaky clean as he claimed?’ Mower asked as he started the car and drove back towards the town centre and police HQ.

‘Not really,’ Thackeray said. ‘I think he’s a very good actor. At the very least he knows more about the girls than he’s prepared to admit.’

‘What we really need is the second girl,’ Mower said. ‘And what really worries me is that she may be dead as well and we just haven’t found her body yet.’

As he pulled into the police car park Thackeray’s mobile phone rang and Mower watched as he listened to the caller
and his face hardened.

‘Thanks for letting me know, Amos,’ he said, before disconnecting. He glanced at Mower.

‘Amos Atherton,’ he said. ‘He’s just got blood test results on our victim. She was HIV positive.’

‘Well, that’ll come as glad tidings to whoever she’s slept with,’ Mower said quietly. ‘Including the father of her child. And if that includes any of the footballers, Minelli will do his nut.’

‘And if she really is a tom, there could be hundreds of men,’ Thackeray said. ‘Not least, Bradfield United’s star player. I think Paolo Minelli’s troubles have only just begun.’ And Mower could not understand why Thackeray allowed himself a faint smile of triumph at that.

For the hundredth time that morning Laura Ackroyd’s hand hovered over the phone on her desk and then moved abruptly back to her computer keyboard as she tried without much success to concentrate on work. At her side was a copy of the day’s first edition which included on its front page the slightly blurred image of the girl the police wanted to interview, the girl she knew as Elena, which had arrived in the office the previous afternoon. She knew, with a feeling of sick horror in her stomach, that she would have to tell Thackeray, sooner rather than later, where Elena was. Concealing her whereabouts now she was wanted as a witness in a murder case was indefensible, morally and legally. The police needed to know what Elena knew about the dead girl and the longer Laura stood in the way of that, the more trouble she knew she, and the Ibramovic family and Elena herself, would be in.

But still she hesitated, with her hand half on and half off the telephone. She could not bear to send the police to Elena’s safe haven in Ilkley unannounced, she decided. The least she owed the girl she and Joyce had tried to help, and the family who had offered her shelter, was that she should tell them face to face what they had to do. She would go out there as soon as she finished work, she thought, and then tell Thackeray
what she and Joyce had done. A couple more hours would not make much difference to the police inquiries she decided, and it would be kinder to the girl if she offered to take her to police headquarters herself rather than letting the police pick her up and quite likely terrify her more than she was terrified already.

She turned back to her computer again with a sigh, only to be interrupted again within minutes by Tony Holloway, who approached her desk looking furious.

‘Did you know about these police inquiries?’ he asked. Laura looked at him blankly, her mind racing at the thought that Tony had somehow found out about Elena.

‘Inquiries about what?’ she asked, her mouth dry.

‘I’ve just had a call from a contact at United. Apparently the police have been up at Beck Lane interviewing the coach, and they’re planning to talk to the whole bloody team later. And I don’t just mean the police. I mean your bloody DCI boyfriend, in person, apparently. What the hell’s all that about? And why didn’t you tell me something like that was going on.’

Laura flushed slightly, conscious of how her own guilt had misled her.

‘I might possibly have told you if I’d known the first thing about it,’ she said with some asperity. ‘Do I have to tell people on this wretched paper one more time? Michael Thackeray doesn’t confide in me about his cases and I don’t confide in him about my stories. I haven’t the faintest idea why he might want to talk to Paolo Minelli. You’ll have to ask him yourself.’ The latter statement was true, she thought, even if the first was not strictly accurate. She and Michael did often talk about their work, and judging by the dilemma she had
just landed herself in over the Albanian girl, talking to him might have been the more prudent option this time too. But Tony was not to be mollified.

‘It seems a bit of a coincidence to me,’ he said. ‘You wheedle your way into Jenna Heywood’s good books, get invited to matches and parties, and then all of a sudden your bloody copper’s all over the team like a rash. Are you telling me there’s no connection?’

‘I’m telling you exactly that,’ Laura said. ‘I don’t know why Michael should want to talk to Minelli. As far as I know he’s investigating the murder of a girl who was found in the canal. Though you probably know as well as I do there’s some odd things going on at United at the moment. Perhaps someone’s complained to the police about that. Jenna Heywood certainly doesn’t seem to be very happy. But that’s your province, Tony. You’re supposed to have eyes and ears up at Beck Lane. I suggest you use them.’

‘What are you saying? I’m not doing my job properly?’

Laura hesitated, knowing that she could not share Jenna’s confidences but quite keen that the harassment of a woman she liked should be exposed to the light of day, even if it had to be through the medium of Tony Holloway.

‘I’ll tell you one thing, which came from my father, who still has some United shares, apparently,’ she said. ‘He reckons there’s quite a vicious auction going on to prevent Jenna getting the two thirds majority she needs to push through her plans for the club to leave Beck Lane. My dad’s been approached to sell, by more than one buyer, I think. You’d get a good story if you did some digging around in that area. I’ll give you his phone number in Portugal if you like.’

But Tony still looked mutinous and Laura wondered again why he seemed to be taking so little professional interest in what seemed to her might turn out to be the death throes of the club. Once she had sorted out the problem with the Albanian girl she would talk to Jenna again, she thought, to see if she could persuade her to talk publicly about the pressure she was under. Suffering that sort of abuse in silence was self-defeating, but she guessed that until the big Chelsea match was over Jenna would be very reluctant to risk blackening the club’s name and possibly demoralising the players. Once the inevitable defeat in London arrived, things might be different.

OK Okigbo was a stocky young man, with a cheerful round face, on whom an Italian suit sat uncomfortably. His physique gave little indication of his magical ability to dance and weave around opponents on the football pitch and crack the ball into the net from seemingly impossible angles with uncanny accuracy. More a potential Maradona than a Beckham, Mower thought, as Okigbo came into Paolo Minelli’s office that afternoon, accompanied by a white man the Sergeant did not recognise. To his surprise, Thackeray, who had commandeered the office for the rest of the day, evidently did.

‘We won’t be needing you, Mr Jenkins,’ the DCI said brusquely to Okigbo’s agent.

‘That right?’ Jenkins said, his own aggression barely under control. ‘Isn’t my client entitled to have anyone here to look after his interests, then?’ The smile on Okigbo’s face faded slightly as if he only now realised the seriousness of what was happening.

‘He’s entitled to have a solicitor with him if he feels he
needs one,’ Thackeray said. ‘But I’m only here to ask some preliminary questions. Mr Okigbo isn’t under arrest or even under caution. We simply want to clarify some facts with him at this stage.’

‘What facts?’ Jenkins asked, his face flushed. ‘What’s this in connection with?’ Okigbo was watching him now, still relaxed but hanging on every word, as if he was used to Jenkins talking on his behalf.

‘It’s in connection with the death of a young woman we have reason to believe your client has met,’ Thackeray said. ‘Now, if you would leave, we would like to get on.’

Okigbo flashed a pleading look at Jenkins, suddenly anxious, but the agent had paled under his tan, and he ran a hand around his collar as if it had become too tight. He put a hand on the footballer’s shoulder.

‘I’ll get you a brief,’ he said. ‘D’you want him here now? What about your mate Emanuel? Isn’t he a lawyer? You can do that, you know.
They
can bloody wait.’ He glared at Thackeray but Okigbo shrugged.

‘I’ll answer their questions. I’ll be fine,’ he said, not sounding totally as if he believed the statement himself. As Jenkins spun on his heel and left, Thackeray waved the young man into the chair facing the desk and he sat down, leaning forward slightly as if to hear the police officers better. To Mower’s surprise, he was the one who spoke first.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked, smiling tentatively again. Thackeray looked grim as he introduced himself and Mower.

‘We met at the West Royd club last Sunday. You were with Emanuel Asida, as I recall.’

‘Ah, yes, I remember now,’ Okigbo said, leaning back in his
chair again, suddenly looking much happier. ‘The policeman at the party looking for the name of a Nigerian girl. And are you still looking for her name?’

‘I’m afraid we are, Mr Okigbo. She’s dead and we still haven’t succeeded in identifying her. And now I have information that leads me to believe that you did know her although you said you didn’t when we met.’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Okigbo said easily. ‘I would remember a Nigerian girl. There are not so many here. We would have lots to talk about, you know? Where she came from, who she knew, what she did in Lagos or wherever…’

‘You do understand the seriousness of what we are asking you?’ Thackeray asked, irritated by the footballer’s casual attitude. ‘We are investigating a murder here.’

Okigbo looked at him blankly for a moment.

‘A murder?’ he said. ‘I didn’t understand that. A murder is serious, yes? This girl you are talking about is murdered?’

‘Let me take you back to another party,’ Thackeray said. ‘The party at West Royd after your game against Rochdale.’

‘Ah, yes, Rochdale. That was a very good game. I had a very good game.’ Okigbo smiled at the recollection.

‘Not the game, Mr Okigbo, the party,’ Mower broke in, as taken aback as Thackeray evidently was by OK Okigbo. ‘You were at that particular party at West Royd. Is that right?’

‘Oh, yes, it was a good party too,’ Okigbo said with a satisfied smile and a slight giggle. ‘I had too much to drink that night, you know? Everyone was buying me drinks that night.’

‘And girls? Or a girl?’ Thackeray snapped, and for the first time he thought he saw a flash of anxiety, if not fear, in
Okigbo’s eyes.

‘I understand you spent some time that night with a young black girl,’ Thackeray said. ‘There were two young girls at the party that night and one of them could well have been the girl we have found dead. Have you anything to tell me about that?’

Okigbo shook his head.

‘It is difficult to remember what happened,’ he said. ‘I had a lot to drink that night. Too much to drink.’

‘Are you saying you don’t remember these girls?’

The footballer shook his head again.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I think there was a very friendly girl. But she was not your Nigerian girl. She was not Nigerian. She said she was a Jamaican girl, a West Indian.’

‘You slept with her?’ Thackeray asked.

‘Yes, I think I did. I recollect I did.’

‘And you’re sure she said she was West Indian?’

‘We didn’t talk much,’ Okigbo said, looking slightly shamefaced now. ‘I was drunk. You know how it goes?’ Mower smiled slightly, knowing that his boss was the last person to know how that particular scenario went.

‘Did she tell you anything at all about herself?’ Thackeray ploughed on, ignoring the question.

‘Her name,’ Okigbo offered eagerly now. ‘She said she was called Grace. A nice name. A very nice name. She was a very nice girl.’

‘Was she a prostitute?’ Mower asked flatly, and Okigbo flinched slightly. ‘Were the two girls prostitutes?’

‘I don’t know,’ Okigbo said. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Oh, come on, Mr Okigbo,’ Mower pressed him. ‘You
know how to define a prostitute. Did you pay this girl for sex that night or not. Did anyone pay either of the girls for sex?’

‘I don’t know,’ Okigbo muttered. ‘I don’t remember. I was very drunk. I am ashamed at how drunk I was. Paolo was not happy about it.’

‘But Paolo didn’t complain about you sleeping with the girl?’

‘No, he didn’t complain about that,’ Okigbo whispered. ‘Was she really a whore?’

‘I would have thought you could have worked that out for yourself, Mr Okigbo. According to our information two girls were brought to the party by car, spent some time upstairs with you and several other players and were then taken away again. What does that sound like to you?’ Thackeray asked. The player shook his head, his eyes moistening and his bravado punctured.

‘I was very drunk,’ he said again.

‘Do you remember what arrangements you made with this girl, Grace?’

‘No, I truly don’t remember.’ Okigbo’s eyes flickered away from his interrogator again.

‘Had you ever met her before?’ Thackeray asked. ‘And I should tell you before you answer that question that the girl was pregnant and DNA can give us a good idea of who the father was.’

‘No, I had never met her before,’ Okigbo said fiercely. ‘If she was a whore… I don’t do that, not often. I don’t usually go with whores, sir. And that is God’s truth. I was brought up a good Christian back home. But now…’ He shrugged, looking momentarily desolate.

‘And she told you nothing about herself, apart from the fact
that she was West Indian?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And did she consent freely to having sex with you?’ Thackeray asked, seeing the immediate shock on Okigbo’s face again and very aware of how little sympathy he felt for the man he was questioning.

‘You mean did I rape her?’ he asked, his eyes full of horror. ‘Of course I didn’t rape her. She was willing. Of course she was willing.’

‘It’s just that if a girl is forced into prostitution, as many are these days, and if they tell the man that they are with them under duress, then having sex with the girl could be construed as rape. Do you understand?’

‘I understand,’ Okigbo said very quietly. ‘I am not a fool, Chief Inspector. Before I became a footballer I had planned to be a lawyer.’

‘Did Grace suggest she was being forced?’ Thackeray persisted.

‘No, no, of course not,’ Okigbo said fervently. ‘There was nothing like that. I think… I believed she was willing. But I was drunk. I can’t be sure. She seemed like a nice girl. As far as I can remember.’

‘Did you see her again?’

Okigbo hesitated and then he shrugged.

‘Yes, I saw her again. I was at the club with some other players one night last week and both girls were there again. I slept with her again. I liked her very much. That night she did ask me to lend her some money. I gave her a hundred pounds.’

‘Is this the girl?’ Thackeray asked, putting the drawing of the dead girl on the desk in front of Okigbo. The footballer nodded.

‘I think so, yes,’ he whispered.

‘Did you arrange to meet her again?’

‘No,’ Okigbo whispered, and Thackeray was almost certain he was lying.

Thackeray hesitated before he spoke again, and Mower, guessing what was coming, looked at the young man opposite them with a hint of sympathy in his eyes.