Depth of Despair (12 page)

When they’d gone through to his office, Nash showed Clara the letter from Stella. She stared at it in dismay. ‘That psychologist must be worse than bloody useless.’

‘Maybe, but I’ve had time to think about it. Perhaps we’re doing her an injustice. She might be cleverer than we think. What strikes you most about the letter?’

‘Apart from the fact that Stella’s bloody angry?’

‘That’s the point. The fact that she’s angry is the best thing to come out of this. A few weeks ago she’d have sat there and taken it. Her reaction is the nearest thing to a genuine show of emotion I’ve seen for months.’

‘So you think it’s good news?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it could be worse.’

It was mid afternoon when Pratt rang back. ‘The CC’s decided not to go for full suspension, not in the first instance. She’s away for three days at a conference. She’s leaving matters until her return. Then she’ll want statements from Armistead, Fleming, Thomas and you. Plus any witnesses. In the meantime she’s insisted you take three days leave. Oh, there’s some good news.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The three days won’t be deducted from your leave.’

‘Big deal!’

‘Funny, I told the CC you’d say that.’

If Nash didn’t storm out of the building, a professional walker would have had difficulty keeping up. He strode along, anger fuelling every step. He reached the Market Square before he began to think rationally. Facing three days enforced inactivity, time would lie heavily on him. He’d need some form of distraction. He arrived home weighed down with several carrier bags. The butcher’s and greengrocer’s takings for the day had been
considerably
boosted.

Nash set about unpacking his purchases and preparing a meal. He poured a glass of wine and began making a list of the dishes he planned to prepare the following day and was surprised to find that when he’d finished his glass was empty. He refilled it before taking his food from the oven.

By 9 p.m. he was restless and unable to settle. Never a great TV watcher, there was nothing in the evening’s programmes to interest
him. He was pondering his chances of getting a good night’s sleep when the doorbell rang.

He stared at the caller in surprise, ‘What are you doing here?’

Zena Dacic stared at him coldly, ‘Is that what passes for welcome round here?’

‘Sorry, you took me by surprise. You were the last person I expected. Come in,’ he opened the door wide. She walked down the hallway into the lounge and looked round approvingly. ‘I was in the kitchen. Would you like a glass of wine?’ If he wasn’t exactly drunk his inhibitions had certainly been loosened.

She gave him a searching stare, ‘That would be nice.’

They sat opposite one another at the table. Nash toyed with the stem of his wine glass. ‘Let me start again. How did you find out where I live?’

Zena grinned, ‘I’m a detective; I asked questions. I spoke to Clara this afternoon and she told me what happened. I’d have come sooner, but Sergei and Anna wished to meet for dinner. As soon as I could get away I found a taxi and here I am. So tell me what’s going on?’

Nash was struck by a stray thought. ‘Your English is excellent. I mean as a second language. Where did you learn to speak it so well?’

‘At university. I had a very good tutor; from Berkshire. And you’re wrong. English is my third language, Russian’s my second. So now, tell me.’

Nash related the day’s events. He’d been concerned how she’d react. Zena’s words and the vehemence of her tone swept all doubts aside. ‘I don’t trust Armistead; he reminds me of many of the old guard in Russia. Ones still clinging to the power they had under the old regime. They’ve no ability themselves but rely on fear and bullying to get others to do their work. Then they claim the credit. As for the Fleming woman, she is a
suka yobanaja
who wants a good sorting out. We must make a plan to outwit them.’

‘What does
suka yobanaja
mean?’

‘Fucking bitch,’ Zena grinned.

He leaned forward and put his hand on hers. ‘Thank you, Zena. I couldn’t begin to hope you’d support me in this.’

‘Why not? You’re the only one working to solve this crime. I
believe you’re the only one capable of finding these evil men. Of course I’ll stand by you.’

Nash became aware he was still holding Zena’s hand. It seemed she did too, for he felt it tremble slightly. ‘Mikhail,’ her voice was low and husky, ‘we have three days. We don’t have to rush to make plans tonight.’

Their journey to the bedroom took seconds. Clothing and
underwear
was scattered. Their first encounter was a savage, tempestuous mating, a rape of mutual consent, that left them spent, exhausted and gasping as they clutched one another, their sweat mingling.

Some hours later Zena stroked him to waken him. He came out of a deep dreamless sleep laughing at the manner of his waking, of where she’d chosen to stroke him. He was roused and aroused simultaneously. As he began to caress her she said, ‘Now, Mikhail, this time let us not merely have sex. This time I want you to make love to me.’

As he was nuzzling her ear Nash was struck by a random memory. ‘What does
milaya
mean?’ He whispered. ‘Clara used the word.’

‘It means sweetheart.’

When Nash woke again he was alone; it was 8 a.m. His senses focussed and he could smell her sensual perfume overlaid with the animal scent of their lovemaking. He could see the small
indentation
on the pillow, the single strand of dark hair across the white of the sheet. He laid his head where hers had been, revelling in the memory. His clothes had been folded and stacked neatly on the chair. He certainly hadn’t done that. In the kitchen he found a note on the worktop. ‘Mikhail, I’ve gone to a breakfast meeting with Svetlov. Phase one of the plan. Trust me. I’ll speak to you later, Z.’

He brewed some coffee. A long, empty day lay ahead. He thought about the previous day and the sequel. What was it Clara had said once? ‘You could try saying “no” for a change.’ Well he could have done, but he’d been a little bit pissed and Zena was bloody attractive. Saying no wasn’t an option that had occurred to him until now; far too late.

Now he’d broken his own rule. Embarked on a relationship with a fellow officer, albeit one from another country. The morning
regret was tinged with something else, a feeling Nash failed to recognize immediately. It came to him when he caught sight of the envelope containing Stella’s letter. The emotion was guilt.

Time dragged on the first day. Nash wasn’t bothered about the outcome of the witch-hunt. Whilst Thomas could claim Nash had assaulted him, the circumstances leading to Nash evicting Thomas from his office constituted gross professional misconduct.

What concerned Nash was the interruption. The bodies pulled from the tarn, their identity still a mystery. Who was left to defend them, to stand up for their rights? That was what Nash understood by police work. That was what he stood for. He’d little time for ‘prisoner’s rights’, to him prisoners were in gaol because they’d offended. Their rights weren’t his concern. Let politicians and penal reformers look after them. Nash was concerned for the rights of the victims.

For the first time since the enquiry began Nash had the
opportunity
to reflect on those pitiful girls. During his career he’d witnessed many violent and depraved deeds. None had caused such helpless rage as he’d felt watching the divers unzipping the body bags containing the pathetic bundles. Remains of young lives, snuffed out with as little feeling as dousing a candle.

Their investigation had been slow to gather momentum; Nash felt they were now starting to make progress. He resented the fact he couldn’t continue. It wasn’t that Nash didn’t trust those about him; indeed he knew his team was good. Despite this, Nash was angry. He was a ‘hands on’ policeman, thrived on personal
involvement
. Being forcibly removed from the enquiry irked him beyond endurance.

He bought and read the morning papers then, as planned, prepared meals for the freezer. Boredom was taking control but his mind was still full of the enquiry. He began considering different aspects of the case.

Motive was obvious; greed. Getting to grips with who and how was another matter. What they needed was a break. He was
confident
one would come, but allied to the who and how was the where and when. Gradually his mind began to wander, his eyelids drooped and he fell asleep.

He woke up to find his body was stiff and he had an
uncomfortable
ache in his back. He was trying to decide how to spend the evening when the doorbell rang.

He found Zena standing on the doorstep clutching a bottle of red wine, smiling a trifle nervously. He stood aside to let her enter. As she preceded him she said, ‘I’ve told Svetlov to inform your Home Office that I’ll only work with you.’

‘That was kind of you, Zena. Do you know, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to all day, apart from buying newspapers. Have you eaten?’

‘No, I came here first. I have news of some importance.’

‘Then share my meal, we can talk as we eat. Why not open that bottle you’re clutching and we can have a drink while I cook.’

She filled a couple of glasses and perched on a stool watching Nash work. ‘Was that the only reason you came,’ he asked suddenly, catching her unawares.

She smiled, ‘That wasn’t the reason, Mikhail. That was the excuse.’

‘Good,’ he looked up from the onion he was chopping. ‘So why not tell me the reason and get that out of the way.’

It may have been the wine that brought an extra tinge of colour to her cheeks; alternatively, it could have been the look in Nash’s eyes. ‘I have an informant who’s a close assistant to one of the crime bosses in my country. He warned me a short time ago of an attempt on my life. We were able to trap the assassin, who is now our guest in St Petersburg. Today I received a text from my informant, telling me his boss has travelled to England.’

‘That’s interesting, who is this “boss”?’

‘His name is Janko Vatovec. He has a long career in crime but has never been caught. He began as an arms dealer in the Bosnia conflict. When the war ended he changed to supplying prostitutes for IFOR troops. That way he not only made a great deal of money but also obtained protection. We believe Vatovec conspired with the army to eliminate his opposition. Certain other criminal leaders disappeared, leaving Vatovec with a monopoly.

‘We know he’s involved in cross-border trafficking of women. He also has a chain of brothels. We’ve closed three so far, despite corrupt police officials tipping Vatovec off. These won’t re-open.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Because I had them burned down.’

Nash raised his eyebrows.

‘It’s a policy decision that came from the highest level. It’s a demonstration of how serious the problem has become and how desperate we are to control the spread of this evil.’

‘Is there any evidence linking Vatovec to child prostitution?’

‘I have no knowledge of such, but it seems to me Vatovec would have no scruples in entering this business.’

‘It’s strange he should come here when so much is happening if he isn’t involved.’

‘It’s natural to make such a connection. I don’t think he came here on holiday.’

‘I’m not a great believer in coincidence. I think we should take this seriously. I’ll follow it up when I get back.’

Zena topped up their wine glasses. ‘How have you spent your day?’

‘Sleeping a lot of the time,’ he admitted. ‘I got myself wound up at being unable to be involved in the enquiry.’

Zena took a sip of her wine, ‘That’s good.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean,’ she studied her glass. ‘It’s good that you’re not in need of much sleep tonight. Perhaps I can find a cure for your
frustrations.
’

During the meal Zena told him, ‘I too am going to be idle tomorrow. Svetlov must return to Moscow for meetings and Anna is to visit Milla at her detention centre.’

‘That’s kind of her.’

‘She’s a good woman. She told me she’s doing this for Milla, for herself and for Katya. She thinks it’s something Katya would have wanted.’

‘I’m glad, because Milla deserves all the support she can get.’

‘It’s also true that Anna admires Milla for her courage and strength.’

‘If it’s a nice day tomorrow would you like to take a tour of the countryside? We could take my bike out.’

‘You have a bicycle?’

‘Motor bike. Come on, I’ll show you.’

He took her hand and led her to the garage. Zena stared at the machine, taking in the smooth lines, the gleaming silver of the coachwork. ‘Mikhail, are you a Hell’s Angel?’

Nash laughed, ‘Not exactly.’

‘Beautiful,’ Zena ran her hand lightly over the saddle. ‘Is it an old machine?’

‘It’s a BSA Road Rocket, built fifty years ago for the racing season.’

‘I think I’ll enjoy riding with you.’

Nash grinned at the double entendre. ‘I certainly hope so.’

The young offenders’ remand centre on the outskirts of York was a newly constructed unit. Milla had been taken there whilst it was decided what charges should be brought against her.

Murder was the obvious choice. The act had been premeditated, but a good defence lawyer would argue Milla’s actions represented her only chance to escape. Moreover he would be able to present this argument with every chance of securing an acquittal.

There were problems with a charge of manslaughter, generally considered to be an impromptu act. Milla’s offences were clearly planned over a long period.

Then again, three men had died violently, and Milla made no secret of the fact that she’d administered the poison, and that she’d hacked off the parts they’d kept far from private.

No matter how much sympathy Milla attracted, no matter how dreadful the abuse she’d suffered, there had to be some retribution for her actions.

Whilst this was being debated, Milla was brought to York. She spent her days watching TV, which she enjoyed but didn’t
understand
, or listening to pop music on the radio, which she did understand. She ate regular meals and exercised in the gymnasium or took walks in the enclosed garden area. Once the full horror of her suffering became known, the attitude of officialdom became positively paternal.

When Anna Svetlova was granted permission to visit Milla for a second time the youngster’s natural resilience had begun to surface. She showed a cheerfulness of character in spite of her restricted liberty and the uncertainty over her future.

Their only companion was a middle-aged woman detailed to watch over Milla during the visit. Regulations stipulated that
unsupervised
visits were forbidden.

Anna commented sadly. ‘I understand. I come from a country weighed down with such regulations. Most of these begin with “it is forbidden”. It is comforting to feel so much at home.’

The meeting began in the lounge but the presence of other inmates inhibited their conversation. Although no one understood what was being said the atmosphere was stilted and unnatural.

It was a clear, cold winter’s day. Anna asked their chaperone if they could continue the visit outside. The centre’s location had been selected for security and the desire to make it accessible to visitors. The site was semi-rural, just beyond the outer ring road to the north-west of the city. The high perimeter wall was enough to deter all but the most determined escapee. It also protected inmates from prying eyes. The only place they could be overlooked was from a hill a quarter of a mile to the north. The hill, topped with trees, was encircled by arable land, too remote to concern the designer.

As they walked they talked about Milla’s future. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve considered what to do?’

‘How can I when I don’t know what they’ll do to me?’ Milla objected.

‘It isn’t easy, but I don’t think you’ll be punished very hard. The British seem sympathetic. A lot of people are working on your behalf. Even if you’ve to be detained, you must think about what happens afterwards.’

‘I don’t know. People here seem kind, although I don’t
understand
them. I suppose I could learn, but would I be allowed to stay? Would I want to? I can’t return home, that’s for certain. I’d die of shame.’

Anna saw tears glistening in the young girl’s eyes. She put her arm around Milla’s shoulders for comfort, drawing her to her side. As she did so they heard a noise, a soft thud, followed by another, then a half-gasping, half-choking sound.

They froze in horror as their chaperone staggered, clawing at her chest, the blood spurting from two ragged wounds. The woman collapsed in an untidy heap and realization came to Anna. She
pushed Milla to the ground, shouting urgently, ‘Crawl Milla. Don’t lift your head. Someone’s shooting at us. Crawl to that wall! As fast as you can! Go! Go now!’

As they crawled towards the sanctuary of the wall Anna saw gravel spurting up close to Milla’s head. ‘Faster Milla! Faster!’

She heard the young girl cry out, saw she’d stopped moving. ‘Milla,’ she called, urgency and panic mingling. ‘Milla, move! For God’s sake, move!’

Nash supplied Zena with leathers. She wondered why he kept a set that were obviously too small for him. Zena slipped her leg
athletically
over the bike and put her arms round Nash’s waist. ‘Carry me away, Mikhail.’

Nash couldn’t hear her through his helmet, but he took the squeeze of her arms as encouragement. Zena found the ride
exhilarating
, the vintage machine reaching speeds that surprised her. They travelled east, reaching the ancient fishing port of Whitby. Nash showed her the Abbey. ‘Do you know what Whitby’s main claim to fame is?’ Nash asked her as they sat over a coffee.

‘I’ve no idea?’

‘This is where Bram Stoker wrote
Dracula
.’

‘Ah, the Transylvanian, Count Vlad the Impaler,’ Zena nodded. ‘I’ve visited his castle.’

‘A medieval serial killer,’ Nash suggested.

They went inland for lunch before heading back to Helmsdale. It was mid afternoon when they arrived. ‘I’m cold,’ Zena admitted, ‘May I take a shower?’

Nash felt a twinge of guilt, remembering the first time he’d brought Stella to the flat on the bike when she too had wanted a shower. ‘Of course, go ahead.’

He noticed the flashing light on the phone. There were three messages from Clara, each reflecting a rising tide of urgency. He was about to call her when the doorbell summoned him.

Clara pushed past him and marched in. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’

‘What’s the panic?’

Clara took a deep breath. ‘The Rubber Johnnies started work at Desolation Tarn this morning. I’ve had a message from Saunders.
They’ve already recovered two bodies and when they suspended work for the day they’d located a third which they’ll bring up tomorrow.’

‘Hellfire, how many more?’

‘There’s worse. I got a call from Pratt,’ Clara gulped. ‘You’ve to get back to work immediately. Milla’s been shot.’

‘For God’s sake! When?’

‘This morning. She was with Mrs Svetlova in the grounds of the detention centre when a sniper opened fire. The guard was killed; Milla was rushed to York Hospital. She’s in intensive care. Tom said it’s too early to tell whether she’s going to make it.’

‘What about Anna?’

‘She’s being treated for shock but she’s okay. The CC spoke to Tom, your suspension’s lifted. I’ve been trying to get hold of Zena; I hoped she could contact Svetlov before he leaves for Moscow. I couldn’t raise her so I phoned the Embassy. They’re trying to stop him before his plane takes off. I don’t suppose you know where she is?’

The door alongside her opened and Zena stepped into the lounge. If the sight of the Russian officer didn’t surprise Clara, the fact that she was clad only in a bath towel certainly did. ‘Oh!’ was all Clara could manage.

‘Hello, Clara, is something wrong?’

Nash explained before Clara’s sarcasm could be unloosed.

‘I’ll get dressed,’ Zena hurried from the room.

Clara eyed Nash. ‘It’s good to see you doing your bit for East–West détente.’

‘I’m glad you approve.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Clara muttered.

‘Do you know if Milla’s being guarded?’

‘Yes. The CC’s ordered an armed officer at the entrance to the ICU. There’s another at her bedside.’

‘There’s nothing to be done on that front then. Has Mexican Pete been to the tarn?’

‘No, he’s at a conference in Paris, flew out this morning. I managed a word with him on his mobile. Apart from accusing you of necrophilia, the rest of it was unrepeatable even if you
understand
Spanish.’

‘It would have been useful if we could have got an opinion from him.’

Pearce answered the phone then held the handset out to Nash, ‘Tom Pratt. He’s been ringing every half hour.’

‘Yes, Tom, I’ve been told. Any news on Milla?’

He listened then sighed. ‘That’s something, I suppose. She’s young and resilient.’

‘No, we’ll set off straight away. Yes, she’s here.’

He put the phone down. ‘The CC’s chairing a meeting at Netherdale in half an hour. She’s ordered everyone to attend. Armistead, Fleming and Thomas are already there.’

The Chief Constable asked them to report progress. Zena,
encouraged
by a nod from Nash, stood up. ‘I received a text message from an informant,’ she gave them the gist, adding a short biography of Vatovec, finishing with details of his activities. ‘Superintendent Nash agrees it’s suspicious that Vatovec is in England now.’

They discussed details required for an operation to capture Vatovec. ‘I’ve ordered photographs of Vatovec from my office,’ she told the meeting. ‘They’ll be faxed through.’

DCI Fleming reported next. ‘I went to the detention centre. The forensics team established the shots were fired from a small copse a quarter of a mile away. They searched the woodland but there was no trace of the sniper. Significantly, there were no spent shells. There were two bullets in the dead woman, two in Milla. Until we analyze the bullets we must assume the weapon to be a
high-powered
rifle with a telescopic sight.’

Nash was silent, envisaging the scene. He saw Milla walking round the gardens with Anna Svetlova alongside, chatting as they walked. He pictured the guard, discreetly behind them. He pictured the copse, the sniper waiting.

For how long? Had he a back-up plan? How could he be sure Milla would come outside? ‘When prisoners are taken from the centre where do they get picked up?’ He asked, noticing a few puzzled looks.

‘The transport pulls through the electronic gates at the entrance. For security everything comes in and out there.’

‘So the assassin wasn’t specifically targeting Milla at that moment. He was prepared to wait until she came out to be
transferred
. Or he had a back-up plan.’

‘You’d better explain that,’ Pratt prompted.

‘The object was to prevent Milla identifying the traffickers. To ensure she couldn’t pick them out of a line-up. Shooting her would be his preferred option, but if that failed he’d have devised another way of getting at Milla. That means they’re worried.’

‘It sounds chancy taking shots at such a long range,’ the Chief Constable suggested.

Nash thought about what she’d said. It was a shrewd point. It was an extreme distance. Even a trained marksman would have preferred to get closer. The fact that the assassin was prepared to take it on reflected what? Desperation? If so, it suggested Milla had evidence of overwhelming importance. Was the idea to kill the girl or scare her into silence? Nash discounted the latter. The people behind this were too ruthless to leave it to chance. Who could take on a challenge like this? With the ability to pick off someone at that range? Then, after shooting her, quietly tidy up and leave no trace?

Nash’s reverie was interrupted by a question from Armistead. Clara, aware of Nash’s preoccupation, frowned with annoyance. She knew what Nash had been attempting and resented the MCU officer’s blundering intrusion. It wasn’t as if the question was particularly important.

Nash answered easily enough, conveying no hint of annoyance at the disturbance of his thought process.

‘Moving now to the bodies recovered from the second tarn.’ The Chief Constable glanced down at her pad. ‘Desolation Tarn, I believe it’s called. It seems we now have eight murders to
investigate
, nine if we include the prison officer.’

Into the silence that followed there came one word. ‘Twelve.’

Everyone looked round, puzzled as to who’d spoken. Their attention homed in on Nash. ‘What did you say, Mike?’ Tom Pratt asked.

‘I said twelve. There are twelve murders to investigate. Five bodies from Lamentation Tarn, three from Desolation Tarn, the prison officer, the two men shot dead on Westlea Estate and Dr Stevens.’

‘You can’t be sure the last three are connected with the bodies in the tarns,’ Armistead protested.

‘No?’ There was a world of contempt in Nash’s voice. ‘The burnt-out car on the Westlea was registered to the address where Milla’s victims were found. Incidentally, if we include them, the count goes up to fifteen and—’

‘I give you that. But you can’t include Dr Stevens,’ Armistead interrupted.

‘He was suffocated with carbon monoxide, having been drugged. There were signs of forced entry. Signs of an attempt to make it look like an accident. Signs that the intruder tried to disguise his presence. Add to that the fingerprint of a former soldier turned mercenary, supposed to have been killed several years ago. What was this character doing in Helmsdale? He wouldn’t turn out unless there was money involved, big money. What do you think he was here for, the North Yorkshire snakes and ladders tournament?’

‘You still haven’t connected him to the other crimes.’ There was a mulish stubbornness about Armistead’s refusal to accept the obvious.

‘I thought I’d said enough to convince you, but obviously not.’

Clara thought Nash’s tone was gentle, too gentle. She almost felt sorry for Armistead. But remembering his unpleasant attitude and his attempt to get Nash shafted, she sat back to enjoy the show.

‘Perhaps you weren’t listening when Commander Dacic made her presentation.’

Here we go, Clara thought.

‘Let me refresh your memory. She told us Vatovec had been supplying prostitutes for IFOR troops during the Bosnia conflict and advanced to human trafficking. She also mentioned that Vatovec is currently in Britain. Martin Hill served with IFOR in Bosnia. He was in Helmsdale a few days ago. If you can’t add those facts together and make the connection then you shouldn’t be at this meeting. You shouldn’t be involved in this enquiry. All you’ve done from the beginning is behave obstructively towards me and my colleagues and prevent the real detectives getting on with solving the case.’ Nash saw the Chief Constable about to intercede and held up a hand. ‘A moment, Ma’am,’ he begged. ‘Not only that.
You’ve consistently failed to provide information that could be vital to the enquiry. Information such as the method by which the girls were smuggled into Britain. Methods which your officers were sent to investigate. No report of that has been given to me or my colleagues.’