Depth of Despair (5 page)

She picked up the phone. ‘We have a problem.’

Early the following morning the man was in position. The window in the apartment he’d chosen was directly opposite Police Headquarters and gave him an excellent line of fire. He’d hit the tenant over the head and hauled her into the bedroom, then placed a pillow over her face until she stopped squirming. It was a pleasant apartment. The old lady had kept it really nice. The new occupants would appreciate that.

His Kalashnikov was set up on a tripod. He went through to the kitchen and brewed coffee. Having finished his drink he glanced at his watch. Time for action. The street was deserted. He set up a photo of his target against the window frame, admiring her good looks, the well-stacked figure, the gleaming auburn hair. At times his job was hard. It was never easy killing a lovely woman, but money was money and there were plenty more beautiful women.

He saw a long, black limousine pull up in front of the Police Headquarters. It’s squat, dated shape proclaimed it to be a Zil, the model favoured by Russian government officials. This would be the one that was to collect Commander Dacic. His job was to ensure she didn’t reach the car. He checked the Kalashnikov. When he turned back to the window he blinked for a moment in surprise. The Zil limousine had been joined by two more.

A few minutes later the double doors of the Police Headquarters swung open and the woman strode out dressed in uniform. He
recognized the auburn hair below the peaked cap and started to sight the Kalashnikov.

Almost at once he was distracted by movement in his peripheral vision. He straightened and stared in disbelief. He looked again. Another Commander Dacic with the same auburn hair had emerged. As he stared, mouth agape, a third Commander Dacic exited the headquarters. The trio stood like mannequins on a catwalk.

He was still gazing at them when a voice alongside him brought his wandering wits back into focus. ‘Dobera Den,’ (Good day,) Zena Dacic murmured. ‘Please raise your hands high above your head.’

Zena’s voice was persuasive to the point of seductive when she wanted but what really convinced him was the small, extremely ugly Makarov semi-automatic pistol she was holding against his temple. That ensured his unquestioning obedience.

Lulu should have been frightened. But she was beyond fear, at least the fear the staff of Good Buys Supermarkets was trying to instil. They weren’t to know she didn’t understand their threats. More to the point, her ignorance rendered her unaware and unafraid of the consequences of her theft.

Even if she’d known, Lulu wouldn’t have been concerned. Lulu was an illegal immigrant, without passport or any identification. Within the past twenty-four hours she’d murdered three men. A charge of shoplifting would have frightened many youngsters. It would have hardly raised Lulu’s heart rate.

Unable to get any response, the manager rang the police. As the only female available, Mironova agreed to accompany the constable responding to the call.

‘I haven’t been able to get a word from her,’ the manager said irritably. Lulu sat motionless. She stared at a point between the uniformed policeman and a stack of boxes.

‘I’ll see if she’ll talk to me,’ Clara said. ‘The warrant card might help.’

She placed herself in front of the girl and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Look at me.’

The girl looked up. Whether in response to Clara’s touch or her words, the detective couldn’t be sure. ‘I’m a police officer.’ She displayed her warrant card. ‘Understand?’ The girl’s face
registered
no emotion. ‘Do you understand?’ She repeated. Again there was no sign the girl had heard or comprehended. Clara looked up and nodded to the uniformed policeman who advanced with a pair
of handcuffs. ‘We’ll need statements from all of you. You in
particular
,’ she glanced at the guard.

Back at the station Mironova looked at the young prisoner, a faint stirring of something approaching recognition troubling her. It wasn’t that she knew the girl, but there was something vaguely familiar about her. A familiarity based on Mironova’s past. Something in the cast of her features suggested an origin far from Yorkshire. After several minutes a mental image drifted before Clara. One from her childhood before her family left Belarus. She’d seen girls with similar features. That was a ludicrous notion, she told herself.

Clara pulled a chair up and sat facing the prisoner. ‘Zdravstuj’ (Hello), she began. ‘Menia zvat Clara’ (My name is Clara). ‘Ja prishla chtob pomoch tebe’ (I’ve come to help you). ‘Kak tebia zovut?’ (What’s your name?).

There was no doubting the reaction. As Clara began speaking, the girl stared wide-eyed at her. Then she burst into tears. Through her loud, hiccupping sobs Clara heard her whisper, ‘Ludmilla, my name is Ludmilla.’

The youngster was sitting, shoulders hunched, her expression a combination of misery and fear. Whatever the tale, Clara thought, it wasn’t going to be good news. ‘What should I call you?’ Mironova began. ‘Do you prefer “Luda”, or “Milla”?’

‘Milla,’ the muttered response containing a wistful yearning. ‘I used to be called Milla at home.’

‘Where was that, Milla? Tell me about yourself? Tell me your name and where you’re from. Tell me how you got here and how you came to be caught shoplifting in a supermarket in northern England.’

Milla stared at Clara. Her expression one of bewilderment, ‘England,’ she repeated, ‘I am in England?’

‘Of course. Don’t tell me you didn’t know?’

Milla shook her head. She appeared dumbfounded. Clara waited and for a moment it seemed as if Milla was about to speak, then she appeared to think better of it. Despite Clara pressing her, she refused to add any more. To every one of Clara’s questions Milla gave the same, single uncompromising ‘niet’ (no) in reply.

The abortive interview lasted half an hour before it was
interrupted. The uniformed officer signalled Clara from the doorway. He muttered something. Milla stared straight ahead unmoved.

Clara wasn’t sure why she translated. ‘Milla,’ she told the youngster. ‘I have to leave you. The bodies of three men have been found and I must go to investigate.’

There was no lack of emotion, no stolid resistance this time. Every vestige of colour drained from Milla’s face and her eyes widened in horror.

There were three officers at the house. ‘What’s been done so far?’ Mironova asked.

‘Nothing, apart from securing the crime scene.’

‘You’re certain it’s a crime scene?’

The officer’s smile had no humour in it. ‘I found three dead men in the dining room. I’m not sure how they were killed but what was done to them leaves no room for doubt. I only hope for their sake they were dead before and not after.’

‘What do you mean?’

The constable glared at her, his irritation apparent. ‘Their dicks and bollocks were slashed off and stuffed into their mouths.’

Mironova swallowed and took a moment before continuing. ‘Who found the bodies?’

‘The postman. He’d a letter that was too big for the box. He knocked on the door and it swung open. He looked inside. He could see into the dining room. He saw the legs and feet of one of the men and went to investigate. The pool of vomit is his.’

‘Okay. I’ll take it from here. You keep the neighbours and press at bay. I need to get hold of Inspector Nash. You get on to the station, ask them to organize SOCO.’

Wearing white suits and overshoes, shower caps and latex gloves, the three detectives had a sexless uniformity. Nash led the way into the dining room. Curiosity overcame their natural revulsion at the sight that awaited them.

Clara and Pearce gasped aloud. The stench of blood and the stink given off as the victims’ bowels voided on death was
overwhelming
, nauseously repulsive.

Mironova fixed her eyes on Nash, who spent a couple of minutes assessing the room, ignoring the bodies.

There was little of value in there. The carpet was worn but not threadbare, the furniture shabbily utilitarian, probably bought second-hand. There were a couple of shot glasses on the table, one of them on its side. A third was on the floor near the corpses. Nash advanced towards the table, treading a serpentine path to avoid the blood which had soaked in massive patches into the meagre pile of the carpet.

He bent over the upright glass on the table and sniffed, recoiling instantly from the sharp, acrid smell. He looked closely at the corpses. Standing deep in concentration he studied each in turn. They were of similar age and appearance. Possibly in their early forties, their olive complexions suggesting a warmer climate than Netherdale. He transferred his gaze to the table and the few items on it, before looking at the corpses again.

Eventually he turned to the others. ‘I’d say these are revenge killings. The killer used household bleach to poison or disable these men. The genitals were cut off before death as they lay choking in agony, their throats and digestive tracts burning from the corrosive substance they’d ingested. Unconsciousness would probably have taken some time, but I’m sure Mexican Pete will tell us more. The bleach would probably have killed them in any case but the murderer wasn’t about to take that chance. The neat bleach had to be substituted for something they would down in one gulp.’ Nash pointed towards the bottle on the sideboard. ‘That looks favourite.’

They glanced at the bottle but the only one able to read the label was Clara.

She nodded agreement. ‘That’s Raki,’ she told them. ‘Product of one of the Slav states, Montenegro or somewhere like that.’

Nash nodded. ‘The removal of the genitals not only ensured the death of the victims, it provided a message. Rejection of what the genitals represent and hatred and contempt for the men
themselves
. The mutilation suggests revenge for some act or acts of extreme sexual violence. That’s the key to the murders.’ Nash gestured to the floor behind him. ‘The men lying there are
criminals
. They’ve violated someone, man or woman, in a way that
provoked this retribution. They’re abusers. The manner of their killing is the ultimate in abuse.’

Pearce spoke, his tone awed. ‘Did you deduce all that from looking at the bodies?’

‘From the bodies and the crime scene. The killer wasn’t satisfied with administering a virulently corrosive poison. He or she went way beyond that.’ He pointed to the pieces of lemon and the salt cellar. ‘The killer ensured the victims suffered the highest level of pain.’ Nash paused.

‘We’ll have a look round before SOCO get here. It won’t take all of us.’ Nash turned to Pearce. ‘Go chat to the neighbours. See what you can find out about the people who lived here. Get on to the council. See what they can tell us about their tenants.’

The kitchen provided further evidence of the horrific nature of the crime. The carving knife tossed carelessly on to the draining board, its blade festooned with shreds of skin and fleshy tissue was enough to turn the strongest stomach, and theirs were already churning.

The next room was obviously used as a lounge. In one corner was a plasma TV complete with DVD and VCR players. The rest of the furniture was a couple of cheap settees and a coffee table.

Nash went upstairs. The first door led to a double bedroom. He paused on the threshold, assimilating the scene. The room was set out like a dormitory, with three single beds in a row down one wall. Opposite them was a double wardrobe, the doors of which were open. Beneath the window was a chest of drawers, all open, their contents spilled across the nearest bed. Every item of furniture was cheap and far from new. Nash stared for a long time before walking across to the drawers. He signalled to Clara and pointed to a single fawn sock lying on the carpet. ‘Search that pile of clothing on the bed and see if you can find a companion to this.’ The sock had a distinctive diamond pattern in pale green. ‘While you’re doing that I’ll have a look in the other rooms.’

The next room was slightly smaller and set out in identical fashion but with only two beds. Only one of which was made up. Neither wardrobe nor drawers seemed to have been disturbed. Nash opened each drawer in turn. Although the contents appeared intact, Nash saw unmistakable signs that someone had moved them. Why?

The third door was slightly ajar. Nash examined the stout bolt and sturdy padlock on the outside, his eyes hot with anger. He looked inside at the single item of furniture, a double bed. He’d suspected what the room would reveal and his heart went out, not to the trio of men lying dead, but to the victim they’d abused. If ever there was a case of justifiable homicide, Nash thought, this was it.

Mironova joined him. ‘There’s no other sock with that pattern. Are we looking for a one-legged murderer?’

Nash shook his head. He stepped round the bed and twitched the curtains back from the window. It had been boarded over. He turned to face her, his expression bleak. He beckoned her. ‘Tell me what you can smell?’ His tone as forbidding as the look on his face.

She sniffed; the sour aroma faintly disgusting, vaguely familiar. ‘Yes, I know what that is.’

‘This room holds the key to the motive. If I’m right, the men went to great lengths to ensure their prisoner didn’t escape and that they weren’t seen. I believe the person held in this room was their sex slave. This was where he or she was abused until they seized the chance to exact revenge and make their escape. This is where the real crime in this house took place.’

‘Mike, look at this.’ Clara pointed to a dirty cardboard box protruding from under the bed. ‘Are those bloodstains?’ She slid the box out, to reveal a badly stained dress thrown on top of the other contents.

‘At least we know we’re looking for a woman.’

The final room was a bathroom and toilet combined. On the floor lay a discarded towel. It had never been clean but now it was badly stained. The soap and wash basin were covered in brown flecks. ‘Okay, leave all that for SOCO. One last thing, we need to go through every room, all the drawers and cupboards and look for any papers or documents.’ Nash turned and led the way back to the bedrooms.

As they were completing this task, with not a single sheet of paper to show for their effort, Nash’s mobile rang.

‘Nash, where are you?’ The caller sounded far from happy.

‘Who is this?’

‘Saunders, who the hell do you think? Have you forgotten you
were supposed to be meeting us this morning? I’ve had to drive five bloody miles to make this call!’

‘Damn! I’m sorry. I got called to Netherdale. There’s been a triple murder. Look, Johnny, I’m nearly finished here. Can you make a start? I’ll join you as fast as I can.’

‘Don’t leave it too long. Remember, we don’t get many hours of daylight at this time of year.’

Nash turned to Mironova. ‘I’ve to get over to Cauldmoor. I’d forgotten we’d scheduled the Rubber Johnnies to resume their search of the tarn today. That was Saunders spitting blood because I’m not there. Can you hold the fort? With luck, I’ll be back before dark.’

‘I need a word first. It’s no big thing but I’ve got a problem with a shoplifter. She was caught red-handed, arrested and cautioned but no matter what I ask she won’t talk.’

‘Get her a solicitor and tell him to persuade her to cooperate, otherwise we’ll throw the book at her.’

‘I’d have done that,’ Clara said. ‘The only problem is finding a solicitor who speaks Russian.’

Nash stopped suddenly and turned back. ‘What?’

Clara explained her abortive attempt to interview the girl. ‘All I got from her was her first name, Ludmilla, Milla for short. She’s from somewhere in the old Soviet Bloc but she won’t say where.’

‘Describe her.’

‘No more than fourteen or fifteen, looks half starved. Dressed like a cheap whore and absolutely terrified about something. It isn’t the shoplifting though; she doesn’t seem the least bit worried about that.’

Nash was silent for a few seconds. ‘Leave her for the moment. Stay here and wait for SOCO. I’m taking Viv with me then I’m coming straight back. I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way and meet you at Netherdale station. I want a word with this young lady.’

He noticed the surprise in Mironova’s face. ‘Think about it, Clara. We’ve two unidentified skeletons at Lamentation Tarn, supposedly of Eastern European origin. A Russian teddy bear. A trio of dead men, whose appearance suggests Slav or Baltic origins, and now a Russian child shoplifter. Unless we’ve been twinned with Vladivostok, there’s got to be a connection.’