Torment (7 page)

Strong interrupted Stainmore. “Sit down.”

He waited until they were seated across the desk from him. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I shouldn’t have bawled you out like that, at least not in front of anyone else.”

“We let you down, guv,” Ormerod said. “You asked us to do something and we got distracted.”

Strong leaned forward, arms on the desk. “You’re right. You did let me down. We’ve got a young woman in hospital in a serious condition. I don’t know if the doctors will be able to save her leg. Minutes might have been vital, never mind the two hours delay it took for someone else to find her.”

Stainmore and Ormerod shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Finally, he judged sufficient time had passed. “Look, you two and Jim Ryan are my best officers. If I can’t rely on you, we’re all in trouble.” Again, Strong let the silence hang for a second or two. “Okay, I think you know how pissed off I am but let’s just let it lie.

“Tell me, what have you got?”

“I spoke to the Ingleby Estates Office.” Stainmore flipped open her notebook. “And according to their records, the new barn is rented on a six-month lease to Chris Baker.”

“What do we have on him?”

“Nothing on record but his younger brother is Gary Baker. Lots of previous for driving while disqualified, no insurance, joy riding and a couple of burglary offences. Known associate of Stephen Chapman. They served two terms in Doncaster Young Offenders Institution together.”

Strong stood up and stared out of the window. “Gary,” he pondered. “The Gaz on the phone message?”

“That’s what I was thinking, guv,” Stainmore said.

“And,” Ormerod added, “Chapman currently works at Westgate End Garage as a mechanic. So, they’re either very understanding or he hasn’t exactly given them a full c.v.”

Strong turned and faced them. “Have we got an address for Chris Baker?”

“Yes, Outwood.”

“Any idea what his business is? I mean, why would he want to rent an industrial shed?”

“Don’t know. I’m still looking into that. Do you want me to bring Chapman in?”

“No, not yet, Luke. Let’s find out a bit more about the fabulous Baker boys first. At the moment, we’re not sure if there’s been any offence committed.” He turned to Stainmore. “Is this the only building Ingleby Estates rent out?”

“Yes. The house is unfit and the old barn just houses some obsolete machinery.”

“Okay. We need to check out the new barn. Let’s see if we can find out what it’s being used for.”

“Barnton Estate Agents in town are handling the rental. They’re spare key holders, apparently.  I’ll get on to them.”

“The pair of you get out there and keep me informed.”

As they rose and made for the door, Strong thought of something else. “Before you disappear, have there been any reports of missing street girls in the last few weeks?”

Stainmore looked at Ormerod, puzzled. “No, not that I’m aware of.”

Ormerod shook his head in agreement. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing. Just something somebody said to me today. I hadn’t heard anything myself. There again I’ve been away for the past two weeks.”

“No, sorry, guv.”

After they left, Strong automatically reached into his inside jacket pocket. For years a packet of small cigars would normally be found there. Now it was empty. It had been two weeks, four days and, with a quick bit of mental arithmetic, sixteen hours since his last. Finally, after years of nagging, he’d bowed to the inevitable wishes of Laura. He felt he could do with one now, though. I love them, I could eat them, he used to say. He didn’t feel any healthier. Not yet, but he didn’t doubt the wisdom of giving up.

Shortly afterwards, he walked into the CID room, hands in his pockets. Jim Ryan was tapping away on his computer keyboard.

“Any news on Helena, Jim?”

“Nothing so far,” Ryan said, eyes never leaving the screen. “Malcolm’s at the bus station checking possible routes she might have taken; which drivers might have been on duty on Thursday night; seeing who’s around who may well remember her.”

Strong rested a buttock on the adjacent desk. “Well that’s about all you can do at the moment I suppose. Do we know who she visited?”

“She had a female friend who shares a house in Harehills with some other girls. Magda said she was going there to see her.”

“Presumably you’ve spoken to this friend?”

Ryan hit the send button with a flourish, leaned back and turned to face his boss. “Well, that’s the thing, Magda has no address, only what Helena told her. We don’t even have a street. No telephone number either.”

“Does Helena have a mobile?”

“Switched off. That’s one of the reasons Magda’s fearful. Helena never switches it off. She’s always careful to keep it charged up.”

“Is there any possibility she might have been on the game?”

Ryan looked surprised. “Never really considered it, guv. I suppose it’s a possibility but…”

“You think not?”

“Never say never but no, I don’t think so.”

Ryan got up out of his chair, walked over to the display board and studied the photograph of Helena. After a few seconds, he turned and faced Strong. “Am I missing something here?”

“Like what?”

“I overheard Kelly and Luke say you were asking about missing street girls.”

Strong stood up and began to pace the room. “Have you?”

Ryan blew his cheeks out.  “Not since that one from Holbeck. But that was about a year ago.”

Strong said nothing.

“Why are you asking, guv?”

“Forget it, Jim. It’s just something someone said to me in passing this morning that’s all.”

Ryan’s desk phone chirruped for his attention. Returning to answer the call, he listened for a few seconds then told the caller he’d be down.

“Could be timely,” he said. “Magda’s downstairs and wants to see me. Want to come along?”

“Sure.”

Ryan grabbed some notes in a file and led the way.

Dressed in tight fitting jeans, trainers and a white tee shirt, Magda Cryanovic was an attractive woman of around thirty. At five feet four inches tall, she was slim and her dark hair was tied back. She was sitting at the table in the interview room on the ground floor, nervously positioning and repositioning the polystyrene cup of coffee the desk sergeant had provided for her.

Ryan introduced Strong to her.

“DCI; you very important policeman?”

He smiled, amused by the assertion that a DCI may be perceived as important, but also intrigued by her accent. “Some may say that, but I don’t see it that way.”

Ryan and Strong sat down opposite her.

“I come to see if you have any news of Helena.”

“Magda, “Ryan said, “we’re struggling to locate Helena’s friend. The one you told us she was visiting on Thursday evening. All we have is an area of Leeds. We’re doing some checks but we haven’t been able to find an exact address for this Lyudmyla.”

“All I know is what I told you. It’s all she tell me.”

“So we don’t even know if she actually intended to visit this friend.”

Strong saw a worried look flash over Magda’s face.

“You think she could not be telling me the truth? Her older sister?”

“We need to know if it’s a possibility,” Ryan said. “We need to know where to look.”

Magda was silent, staring at her half-finished coffee.

“You think she may not have told you the complete truth, don’t you Magda?”

She nodded. When she looked up, her eyes were moist. “She changed. Before, she was always honest.”

“Before what?”

“Szymanski.”

“Her boyfriend?”

“What he want her for?” Magda became agitated. “I no trust him. I see plenty like him back in Tirana. He bully. I try to get Helena away from him. I tell her what he like but she say he loves her.”

“I thought they’d split up.”

“Who say that?

“You don’t think they had?”

“No. I no hear that.”

Ryan looked across at Strong who had been happy to let him lead the conversation.

“Was he ever violent towards her?” Strong asked.

She shrugged.

“Magda,” Ryan followed up, “Did he ever hit Helena?”

“I know what violent means,” she responded indignantly, sitting back in her seat.

“So, did he?”

She took a moment to consider her answer. “She never say. But I think so.”

“Why do you think so? Did she have any bruises?”

She leaned forward again, arms on the table and began to turn the coffee cup around. “Once,” she said quietly. “I see marks here, on her arms, as though someone did this.” She gripped her own upper arms. “But I never ask.”

Ryan opened the file he had brought with him and pulled out a photograph.

“Have you ever seen this man before?”

Magda looked at the picture of Stanislav Mirczack and froze for a split second before turning away. “No,” she said.

Strong leaned forward onto the table. “Magda, at the very least, we need you to be honest with us. If you want us to help you find Helena, you need to tell us everything you know.”

She sat silently, staring down at the cup.

“You recognised that man, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, almost inaudibly.

“Where from?”

“He came once. With Szymanski. He evil, I can tell.”

“And did Helena go off with them?”

“No, he just come to our flat. He was there with Szymanski when I come home. They left within minutes. I think because I arrive. I ask Helena what they want but she say they just called to see her.”

“But you think there was more to it than that?”

“She seem nervous, frightened. Even after they left. But she kept saying there was nothing wrong.”

“And you only saw him the once?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“About three weeks ago.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about what Helena has been doing in the past few weeks? Any other strange visits or changes in her moods?”

“Only that she has been keeping things from me. I ask but she says there is nothing wrong. Everything fine. But I think she frightened of something.”

“Szymanski and this man?”

Again she shrugged.

“Okay, Magda,” Ryan said, “if you think of anything else, or if you remember any more about where Helena went on Thursday night, get hold of me immediately.” He gave her his card.

Strong waited for Ryan to return from showing Magda out of the station. As they climbed the stairs on their way back to the CID room, Strong asked for Ryan’s reactions to the meeting.

“We got a lot more out of her there. I’m not sure I like this Mirczack connection.”

“Nor me, Jim,” Strong affirmed. “Why don’t you get on to Vice and see what they can tell you about his activities.”

“Was thinking the same myself, guv.”

11

At the hospital, Souter returned to his car, lit a cigarette and listened to the radio on low volume. For what it was worth, he believed that Strong knew nothing of any missing working girls. Chances were, they hadn’t been reported.  He pulled his wallet from his trouser pocket and removed the slip of newspaper on which Sammy had written her address and phone number. Since she came to see him yesterday, he’d given a lot of thought to the plight of young girls like her and her friend. Girls who had been drawn into that way of life. It had given him an idea for a possible future article on the subject. He stared at the number for a minute then dialled it. He was about to give up when a male voice answered.

“Hello, I’d like to speak to Sammy if she’s around,” he said.

“Sammy? Ain’t no one here by that name.”

Before he could speak again, the line went dead.

Just then, he saw Alison and Gillian walk into the A & E Department, passing Strong and his colleague as they left to walk back to their car. He gave it a minute then made his way back inside.

Alison and Gillian were sitting in the waiting area. As he approached, they both stood up.

“Thank you,” Gillian said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. She sat back down.

Alison beamed at him. “Well done. God knows how long she would have been there if you hadn’t found her. So much for the police, eh?”

“Just good luck, that’s all. What news?”

“She’s in theatre now. Doctors will tell us more as soon as they can.”

“Look, I’ve got to get back. Give me a call if there’s any news.”

“Sure.” Alison reached for his hand and squeezed it.

He leant forward and kissed her. “See you tonight.”

By ‘get back’ however, Souter didn’t mean the Yorkshire Post offices. He made his way out to the address Sammy had given him. Frequently consulting his A to Z, it took him about thirty minutes to find the street and another five to find the actual building. It was a run-down Victorian house that had been split into flats many years before. The windows looked as if they’d never been cleaned in decades and the paint for the most part had flaked off. Filthy net curtains hung in a desperate effort to give some privacy to the tenants, augmented by a variety of clothes pegs, drawing pins and other fixings.

As he approached the building, a youth of about eighteen with greasy hair and severe acne came out.

“Looking for Sammy,” Souter said.

The youth looked him up and down. “Oh, yeah.”

“She in?”

He smirked. “Room Three.” With that, the obligatory hood came up and he was off.

Souter pushed the main door open. The first thing to hit his senses was the smell of stale food. That and dampness. The carpet in the hallway was threadbare and did its best to grip his shoes. It reminded him of a nightclub in Manchester he once visited many years ago. Junk mail was piled on a rickety table in one corner.

Room Three was at the back of the building behind the staircase. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. “Sammy?”

This time, he heard movement from inside.

“Sammy?” he repeated.

“Who is it?” she whispered.

“It’s Bob … er … Robert Souter. You came to see me yesterday.”

The sound of a chain being removed then a bolt being slid preceded the door’s opening.