Carnal Acts (36 page)

Rosie Etherington had hardly slept. Now, in the first light of day, she couldn’t sit down. She moved from room to room, upstairs, downstairs, into the garage, through what had been the pantry to the larder and out again. She went into Nick’s room and touched the bed, then bent to smell the pillow. She hadn’t changed it, but the smell of him was fading. One wall was covered in framed photos of rugby and cricket teams. There he was, caught in time, never growing older. She choked and wished she could cry. Even that small relief had been denied to her over the past twenty-four hours. It seemed she was growing a shell, a carapace that shielded her from everything that had been thrown at her. The problem was that it also blocked emotions she knew were dangerous – anger, disgust, the lust for revenge.

She went into Michael’s bedroom. It was little more than a guest room, with a bed and a single chair. He kept it very neat
and didn’t allow her to clean it. She opened the wardrobe. His uniforms hung inside clear plastic covers. The bright red mess jacket, the dark green formal uniforms he’d worn at the Ministry of Defence, battle dress … but no camouflage gear. She was sure there had been two sets.

Curious, Rosie went downstairs. Michael’s hiking boots were not in the drying room. Then she had another thought. She walked to his study. Again, it was preternaturally tidy. The police had taken his desktop computer the day before, but she hadn’t said anything about his laptop. For some reason he’d never explained, he kept it behind a row of large books about the Balkans on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. She looked. It wasn’t there. The police hadn’t found it as she’d been given a receipt for the other computer, so Michael must have it with him. She didn’t know what to make of that, anymore than she had any idea where he was. His mobile was permanently on the answering service. She’d stopped leaving messages asking him to contact her.

Rosie kept on moving, up and down the corridor on the ground floor. Then her stomach somersaulted. She went up to her bedroom and dug her fingers under the corner of the carpet. The key was where she’d put it after her father-in-law moved in. He’d insisted she take it, ‘in the remote chance some bastard tries to break in when you’re on your own. You need to be able to defend yourself.’

She went back down and towards the drying room, her heart galloping. The tall steel locker was in the far right-hand corner. She put the key in the lock and turned it. She immediately saw there were weapons missing. She didn’t know much about guns – her husband had never fired one in his life – but she knew there had been a hunting rifle that Michael took up to the Highlands for the annual deer cull on a friend’s estate. It wasn’t there. There had also been two pistols, illegal as Michael said, but souvenirs from his time in the service. One of them was gone. And there had been two knives – combat weapons, he’d said. Now there
was only one. She pulled it from its leather sheath and moved it from side to side. The light glinted off the polished metal. She touched the edge and blood bloomed on her finger.

Rosie closed and locked the door. Then she went up to her room and lay on the bed, holding the point of the knife to her throat. She let pictures of Nick cascade before her, moving, ever moving until darkness came to claim her.

Heck was early into the MCU, though Joni was already there. He took her into the glass cube to tell her what Donnie Pepper had told him, omitting the parts about Not So Lucky Sacker and Lee Young.

‘More evidence against Favon,’ Joni said.

He shook his head. ‘He wasn’t even arrested. It’s only hearsay. I’ll tell Mrs Normal, but I’m not bringing it up in the meeting.’

‘He’s involved in this to the hilt, I’m telling you, sir.’

‘You may well be right, but we need more.’

‘How about this?’ Joni recounted what Pete Rokeby had told her about the hairs that he’d found in the Hilux.

‘Interesting. Let’s wait and see what the techies come back with.’

Joni opened her mouth.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, looking away. ‘I’ve got some notes to write up before the briefing.’

Heck watched her go, aware she wasn’t being straight with him. Women. Then he thought what Ag would say to that and felt embarrassed. Not for long. He had a decision to make. Should he tell Mrs Normal about Lee Young’s alleged dirtiness or not? He’d never liked the guy, but they’d worked on several big cases in the Newcastle MCU and he couldn’t fault Young. The
bugger was good at politicking too. But there had been
whispers
about where he got some of his leads. No one had proved anything, although some detectives reckoned Young was on the take, fitting up gangs on the word of the opposition. If he was in with Albanians, he could have vital information. He called the ACC and was in her office two minutes later.

Ruth Dickie listened without interrupting, her fingers in a pyramid beneath her snub nose. ‘This man Pepper,’ she said, when Heck finished. ‘You trust him?’

‘Yes, ma’am. But he’s out of the game now, so his sources might not be reliable.’

‘No, I think they are.’

Heck failed to disguise his surprise.

‘You see, I’ve had a close watch on DCI Young since the headless-man case was linked to the Albanians. This is highly confidential, of course. If Lee Young gets wind of this, I’ll know who to blame.’

Anger coursed through Heck. ‘I brought this information to you, ma’am. I’m hardly likely to tell Lee.’

‘Stranger things have happened, but all right. The chief constable is aware of this, by the way.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘We should go down to the briefing.’

She led him down the stairs. ‘I hope you’re getting somewhere with the various cases,’ she said, over her shoulder.

‘So do I,’ he said, under his breath.

The MCU was full. They walked to the front and Heck began.

‘The missing Albanian girl?’

‘Nothing further, sir,’ Joni said.

‘Oliver Forrest is still unaccounted for, too. General Etherington?’

‘His Jaguar hasn’t been seen by Traffic Division,’ Pete Rokeby said. ‘No sightings of the man himself.’

‘Nick Etherington?’

‘Canvassing of the houses further from where he was found has drawn a blank,’ Joni said. ‘No black 4×4s have been found
with any damage, but that’s a dead end anyway, given that his bike has no paint residue on it. The likelihood is that he swerved when the vehicle came close and went off the road.’

‘And then someone stoved his face in,’ Morrie Simmons said.

Joni gave him a sharp look. ‘Traffic Division hasn’t found any skid marks. It appears the car came to a halt without braking hard, then went back so that the driver or passenger could commit the murder.’

‘Nasty,’ Nathan Gray said.

‘Professional,’ Joni riposted. ‘At least it could be.’

‘Less speculation, please,’ Ruth Dickie said.

‘Nick’s phone has still not been recovered.’ Joni looked across the room. ‘DC Andrews?’

‘We’ve got the records from his service provider. There are calls to Evelyn Favon’s mobile and to his home number in recent days. Nothing else that sticks out, but I’m checking back further.’

Heck raised a hand. ‘The Steel Toe Caps?’

‘Apart from Goat Skin Shackleton, who’s in a cell downstairs, their alibis are as tough as Corham Steel,’ Morrie Simmons said. ‘Then again, look what happened to that.’

There were a few titters.

‘Spare us what you fondly imagine is wit, DI Simmons,’ the ACC said. She turned to Heck. ‘This is going from bad to catastrophic, DCI Rutherford.’

Before he could speak, Joni butted in.

‘There have been some positive developments, ma’am. DS Rokeby?’

‘Although the tyre prints taken from the moor near Oliver Forrest’s quad bike didn’t match any of the Favon estate vehicles, I found some hairs – probably animal, the lab’s checking – in the cargo compartment of the red Hilux. It may be the vehicle that was spotted near the wood where Suzana Noli was last seen.’

Ruth Dickie’s face had hardened when the name Favon was mentioned. Joni saw that and pressed on.

‘Lord Favon told us that his factor Dan Reston and his wife
Cheryl are on leave. We ran a check on them. Reston himself came up clear, but Cheryl has numerous prostitution charges going back to her youth in Bristol, and later she served two years for inciting child prostitution.’

There was silence in the room.

‘Where does that leave us, DI Pax?’ Heck said sharply. He was unimpressed about having been kept in the dark.

‘I haven’t finished, sir. DS Rokeby and I went up to the area around the Favon estate yesterday evening. We split up and asked questions about the Restons in the local pubs. They aren’t popular, to put mildly.’

‘How about putting it meaningfully?’ Heck said.

Joni kept her eyes off him. ‘Dan Reston has been barred from two of the places. He gets violent when he drinks and threatens people. No reports of actual violence.’

‘There was talk of him abusing women in the labour gangs that work on the estate,’ Pete added. ‘Though he seems to have stopped that in recent months. He orders tenants around and gets any who talk back thrown out by the noble lord.’

‘Is this going anywhere?’ the ACC asked, her expression grim.

‘Cheryl Reston doesn’t go to the pubs, but she does have a reputation for picking up senior schoolboys. Nothing’s been reported as the boys are too scared to talk. Some parents got it out of them and complained to Lord Favon last winter. He said Cheryl’s duties would be confined to the estate. She hasn’t been seen outside much since then.’

‘So, we have a bully and a sexual degenerate,’ Ruth Dickie said. ‘Hardly unusual and not directly connected with any of the cases we’re investigating. Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time, DI Pax?’

Morrie Simmons and Nathan Gray exchanged grins.

‘As a matter of fact I have, ma’am,’ Joni said, with a cold smile. ‘Lord Favon was caught in a raid on a Newcastle city-centre brothel two years ago. He used his contacts to escape arrest.’

‘That’s enough,’ the ACC said. ‘DCI Rutherford, DI Pax, in
there.’ She pointed to Heck’s office. ‘What exactly is going on here?’ she demanded, when the door closed behind them. ‘I told you to leave the Favons alone.’

Heck glanced at Joni. ‘We haven’t been in further contact with them, ma’am.’

‘I’m glad to hear that, but why did you authorise DI Pax and DS Rokeby to question people in the local pubs? That’ll get back to Lord Favon, you can be sure.’

Joni was about to speak, but Heck cut her off.

‘I’m not convinced he’s being straight with us, ma’am. He says the Restons aren’t there, but he flat refused to let us go to their house.’

‘But what can any of this have to do with the Albanian girl – a firm murder suspect, I might remind you – and Nick Etherington’s killing?’

‘The Favons have business connections with the Albanians,’ Joni said.

‘You mean via the ganger? Hardly very incriminating.’

‘Suzana Noli was last seen on the moor adjoining the Favon estate,’ Heck said. ‘And Ollie Forrest was up there too.’

‘Maybe he abducted the girl.’

Joni and Heck looked at each other.

‘Maybe he did,’ the latter said. ‘Ma’am, Lord Favon is into S&M. He hurt a working girl badly in that brothel in Newcastle. It has to be a possibility that he was in the Burwell Street brothel last Sunday night.’

‘We don’t deal in possibilities, DCI Rutherford. Leave the Favons alone. We’ll never get a warrant with so little evidence.’

Pete Rokeby knocked on the door. Heck waved him in.

‘Sorry to interrupt, but I thought you’d want to hear this. The SOCOs confirm there were dog hairs in the Favon Hilux. Dobermans, to be precise. Two of them.’

The ACC sighed. ‘So Dan Reston has dogs. Perhaps Lord Favon didn’t know.’

‘Perhaps,’ Heck said. ‘But a Doberman could have ripped out
Gary Frizzell’s throat. Pete, ask Dr Volpert to compare what remains of the wound to a Doberman’s bite pattern.’

‘Sir.’ Rokeby left.

‘This is getting more confusing by the minute,’ Ruth Dickie said. ‘Put together whatever kind of case you can, but don’t take action without my permission. It’s Friday. We all need the weekend to reflect on this.’

‘We should be on the estate looking for Dan Reston,’ Joni said.

‘We need more evidence,’ the ACC said. ‘Lord Favon said the Restons aren’t there. I can’t accuse him of lying without due cause.’ She turned and left.

Joni looked at Heck. ‘Thanks for…’

‘Don’t ever do that again, Joni. You didn’t tell me you were going to the pubs up there and you didn’t tell me what you heard. You hung me out to dry.’

‘I appreciate the support, sir. It won’t happen again.’ Joni’s eyes flashed. ‘But you know Favon’s dirty.’

Heck ran his hand over his hair. ‘I don’t know whether it’s Friday or a scrambled egg.’

Michael Etherington had crawled to his position behind the hedge before dawn, having left the Range Rover he’d borrowed from an old army friend three miles away up an overgrown track. He was wearing camouflage fatigues and matching hat, as well as his walking boots. As the sun rose, he took in Favon Hall and the old tower behind it through the scope on his rifle. The formal garden in front of the main building was in surprisingly poor condition, considering the place would be open to the public in under a month. Maybe Andrew was making less from the estate and his investments than he used to. Plus there was the fact that there was a leech attached to him.

He moved the rifle left and right, but there was no movement in or around the buildings. Too early for nightbirds like the Favons. He wondered if they’d been out the previous evening and whether they’d been together or on individual pursuits. Andrew’s red Toyota was parked at the side of the Hall, but Victoria’s black sports car was right in front of the main entrance. It looked like it had slewed to a halt as though the hounds of hell were after her. Maybe they were. He knew they had sold shares in some of their businesses, especially in high-tech and paper, to the Albanians. Julian Dorries had managed to identify the ultimate owners even though the Spahia clan was using front companies.

He thought about what he’d been told the previous day. The woman was a fool –what kind of person called herself Moonbeam? – but there was more to her man. At first he’d found it hard to believe he was serious. How could a relatively minor player like him be successfully blackmailing a big figure like Andrew Favon? Because he could, was the answer – he obviously had good sources of information. He knew himself that Andrew had secrets he didn’t want in the public domain, but
this
– this was incredible. The man said he’d been following Victoria and had seen her and a man he couldn’t identify run Nick off the road. Michael had gone to meet them to obtain information, after he’d got a call saying ‘I know who killed your grandson’ and directing him to the mad woman’s cottage.

He hadn’t believed it, but he was so desperate that he went. The blackmailer had disappeared as soon as the police officers approached and, quick as a flash, Moonbeam made up the story about him consulting her about Nick’s killer. It wasn’t so far from the truth, he reflected afterwards. Except he had to think on his feet too, feigning that he was gay and phoning ahead to Julian to back up the story. The police were ahead of him, breaking that alibi too. He was unlucky that the striking black policewoman had recognised him from Burwell Street with Goat Skin, despite his efforts to disguise himself. Julian had invoked the Official
Secrets Act, which had bought him time – that was one of the reasons he’d involved the techie. Julian would be under pressure now. At least his wife would confirm that she’d thrown him out. He was bisexual and good luck to him.

On the general’s insistence, everyone in the Steel Toe Caps and his group of ex-SAS men had multiple pay-as-you-go phones. Goat Skin had told him what the police said. They’d agreed it would be sensible to pay heed and leave the Albanians alone for a while. But if they stuck their noses back into Corham, they’d feel more than just toe caps. And all the time, Julian Dorries would be collecting information about the Albanian clan’s activities. The police had been after the Steel Toe Caps again about the Stars and Bars explosion. They all had solid alibis, except the idiot Goat Skin, who would keep his mouth shut whatever happened. None of them knew the explosives men, who had become ghosts after leaving the SAS.

Eye on the scope, Michael Etherington thought about the actions he’d taken since he got confirmation that the Spahia clan had extended its operation into the north-east three months ago. Recruiting had been easy, as he’d kept in touch with reliable former soldiers in the area. Shackleton had let himself go, but he was still a useful man in a fight, as well as having communication technology skills that would be essential if they had to stop using mobiles. There were four other hard men. They had been in Kosovo at the same time as him and they knew how vicious the Spahia were. The Albanians didn’t only kill in the heat of battle, but as a point of principle. It would almost be admirable if their principles weren’t so repulsive – pimping, people trafficking, smuggling, kidnapping, drugs. Michael remembered the men, most of them old, and the women and children they’d found massacred on that April morning in the forest near the Kosovo border with Albania. The clear air was cut with the stench of corruption. The dead hadn’t just been executed, they’d been mutilated. He was sure the younger women had been raped before being killed. He swore to himself that
he wouldn’t let it rest. His superiors saw his rage and withdrew him, letting him shuffle paper for five years before giving him the push. He’d spent the time planning, organising and
equipping
. His intention had been to strike at the Spahia in London, but their expansion northwards coincided with his own move home. The battle lines had been drawn. If that whore – the poor, desperate girl – hadn’t justifiably gone crazy in the brothel, the Steel Toe Caps would have dealt with the Albanian pimps the following weekend. He’d planned to torture the men to find out more about the clan’s activities in the area. Now he was reduced to stalking a callous man-eater to find out what she’d been up to with his grandson. Moonbeam Pax’s man hadn’t been accurate – he didn’t actually
know
who killed Nick as he’d reversed away when the black 4×4 stopped. Michael had paid him the five thousand he wanted anyway.

He thought about his grandson. He’d known about the affair with Victoria, having spotted her drop him off at the end of the village one evening. He had seen Nick receive the Sevens cup from Victoria before Easter and, with hindsight, there had been a spark between them. She’d spoken to him longer than a local aristocrat normally would to a dirty adolescent rugby player. Andrew Favon was next to her and he had his usual distracted air. Victoria had come on to him once, not long after Christine had died. Deep down he’d been flattered, though he told her to behave. He should have realised she’d get back at him by bedding Nick. He hoped Nick had enjoyed the experience, even though it had brought unhappiness too –Victoria had toyed with him, leading him on and then rejecting him. Had that been another way of revenging herself on Michael? It seemed likely she’d been jealous of Nick’s feelings for Evie. But what kind of monster killed a young man for loving her daughter?

He would wait until Andrew went off on his daily round of meetings and go down to the Hall to find Victoria. If he suspected she was lying and that she did have something to do with Nick’s death, he would break her bones one by one. The combat
knife would be useful too. He’d also find out exactly why Andrew was being blackmailed. If he was the one who had killed Nick, Michael would wait for him and then execute them both. His only fear was Evie. He would have to lock her up somewhere.

Michael heard a noise and saw a red pickup come round the corner of the hall from the old tower. He made out the figure of the Favons’ factor, a gorilla by the name of Reston. He remembered him scowling at one of Andrew’s shoots when he had to hand the whisky round. Two large animals were running next to the vehicle. He zeroed in on them. They were Dobermans, spittle lathering their flanks. Then one of them stopped and sniffed the air. The other did the same and their smooth heads turned in his direction. They started to bark at the same time and then tore across the unmown lawn, ears back, heading straight for him.