Life For a Life (38 page)

‘So, how would renting properties help shut Kumar down?’ Gilchrist asked. ‘You said he was chased north of the border to set up shop. But that interfered with your family business, and you would have none of it.’

Shepherd grinned at Gilchrist, like a man of the world to a boy child. ‘You’re no quite as smart as I was told you were, son,’ he growled, leaning closer. ‘And you’re no listening. I don’t do women slaves. Period. And I wouldnae stand for some wee bastard breezing into Scotland and thinking he can fucking take over my territory, no matter what fucking line he’s in. First women, then afore you know it, you’re out on your ear.’ He dabbed spittle from his lips. ‘But here’s how the take-down was gonnie work.’

Gilchrist found himself leaning closer, wished he could record what he was about to hear.

Shepherd lowered his voice. ‘Caryl got wind that a shipment was due in.’

‘Shipment?’

‘Women. Girls. In their teens. Forty of them. All gonnie be driven up in a convoy of lorries from England, like fucking cattle. Caryl offered to help by finding properties here. For a fee, of course. Nothing fancy. One here, one there, none that would draw attention to herself.’

Gilchrist watched Shepherd take another sip, surprised to see the big man appearing to liven rather than slide beneath the table like any normal person would.

‘And once the wee cunt was all set up and ready to go, we were gonnie fuck him, and shop him to the polis.’

‘Why not just . . .’ again, he chose his words with care, ‘sort him out?’

Shepherd narrowed his eyes, giving Gilchrist’s words some thought. He could have been a businessman analysing market strategy. ‘That would be just the head of the snake, son. Another piece of shite would float to the top and try to take over where that wee cunt left off.’ He shook his head. ‘No, son, if you’re gonnie get rid of a nest of snakes, you take out the whole fucking lot. Catch them red-fucking-handed. That’s what Caryl was gonnie do.’

‘And Kumar found out?’ Gilchrist said.

‘Aye, he did.’

‘Who told him?’

‘That stupid wee fucker, Donnelly.’

‘So Craig Farmer killed Donnelly.’

Shepherd eyed Gilchrist, as if seeing something smart in him for the first time. ‘You don’t expect me to acknowledge any association with that now, do you, son?’

Gilchrist shook his head. ‘Of course not. But off the record?’

‘This fucking meeting never took place, son. Got it?’

He had indeed. ‘Got it,’ he said.

Shepherd stared hard into Gilchrist’s eyes as if willing himself into his mind and explaining the consequences of a loose tongue. As if satisfied, he said, ‘Donnelly was a loose cannon. Not to be trusted. One of them up-and-coming youngsters I told you about. Getting too fucking big for his boots.’

‘Donnelly attacked one of my team in a car park,’ Gilchrist said. ‘DI Davidson. Could have killed him if Farmer hadn’t pulled him off in time.’ He waited a beat. ‘But Donnelly got the wrong man. DI Davidson had borrowed my car for the day.’

Silent, Shepherd returned Gilchrist’s look.

‘Why would Donnelly want to kill me?’

Shepherd narrowed his eyes. ‘Maybe you’re asking the wrong question, son. Maybe you should be asking yourself why Farmer pulled him off.’ He took another sip of whisky, and Gilchrist caught a sense that the meeting was coming to an end. ‘None of my men do cops, son. You can trust me on that.’

Gilchrist would have liked to take comfort from that but talk was nothing but words. ‘Kumar killed Farmer,’ he said. ‘Was Farmer one of your boys?’

‘I thought he was one of Caryl’s but until I get to the bottom of why he didnae take Kumar out, I’ll never know for sure.’ Shepherd snapped back the remains of his whisky and cracked the glass on to the table with a force that should have shattered it.

The meeting was over.

‘So you want me to do what?’ Gilchrist said. ‘Kumar’s been charged and will be tried through a court of law.’

Shepherd pushed his chair back and himself to his feet. He slipped his hand into his coat again and removed another envelope, white this time, to avoid confusion. ‘Caryl was good at what she done. Which is why I trusted her to run the business.’ He nodded to the envelope. ‘That’s from her,’ he said. ‘You never got it from me, and we never met.’ He waited until he had Gilchrist’s nod of agreement, then said, ‘That’ll help you fuck him.’

Gilchrist waited until Shepherd and his four hardmen waded through the door and into the afternoon daylight before he picked up the envelope and slid it into his jacket pocket. Then he pushed the remains of his pint to the side and walked from the bar.

The contents of Big Jock Shepherd’s envelope were sufficient for the procurator fiscal to charge Kumar with multiple murders, and to expect the full force of the law to put him behind bars for life, with no chance of parole. Ten other members of his slave gang were charged with kidnapping, rape and drug distribution, and expected to be put away for ten to twenty years each, a pittance compared to the many young lives they helped destroy.

A video recording of women being raped, tortured, then killed, and featuring a blood-soaked Kumar, slaughterer’s knife in hand – the same knife with which he had intended to decapitate Gilchrist – caught in profile and face on, his voice distinguishable from all others, was irrefutable evidence that Kumar was a serial killer of the first order, and would ensure he would never see this side of a prison cell ever again. And the ring removed from his little finger on his left hand proved to be the tattoo branding stamp, with its own ink pad embedded inside – two quick stabs under the arm, side by side, and you had your double bones, or number eleven.

But it had been the contents of the flashdrive copied from Kumar’s personal laptop – Gilchrist later confirmed with Big Jock that Craig Farmer had stolen it, supposed protection against Kumar’s burgeoning business activities – that pulled Kumar’s empire to the ground and tore it up by the foundations.

Properties in six English counties were seized, and a total of sixty-seven girls released from barns, attics, basements and, in one case, an outside toilet. The conditions that many of these girls were kept in were described in one national newspaper as
hell on earth
. Two of the young women, both from Gdansk in Poland, died in hospital from drug abuse, their systems simply shutting down in the end from the onslaught. A folder containing photos and full IDs of every girl under Kumar’s control provided conclusive ID – Marysia Grabowski, the Coastal Path girl, was indeed the sister of Galyna whose triangular chin had edged Gilchrist closer to the truth. The other two found in the house in Kingsbarns were identified as Anna Kowalski from the town of Rzeszow in south-east Poland, and Zosia Walczak from Elblag in the north. A team of Policja detectives flew to Scotland for formal identification and commencement of repatriation proceedings.

A separate investigation by Stan revealed that Stewart Donnelly once shared a cell in HM Prison Peterhead with Jimmy Fisher, a serial rapist originally from Dundee who was found hanging in his garden shed on the morning a warrant for his arrest had been issued for alleged sexual offences against three pre-schoolers. The senior investigating officer about to make the arrest had been DCI Andrew Gilchrist of Fife Constabulary.

‘That’s the reason for the attack right there,’ Stan said.

‘Revenge?’

‘For you causing the death of his mate, boss.’

Well, it seemed as good an explanation as any.

But Jock Shepherd’s words –
None of my men do cops, son. You can trust me on that
– sounded weak against the big man’s uncertainty over Craig Farmer’s allegiance. If Stan had not borrowed Gilchrist’s Merc that day, would Donnelly have been permitted to finish the job?

‘I think you were lucky,’ Stan said.

Gilchrist could only nod in agreement.

And Gilchrist had one more surprise when CS Greaves called him to his office and introduced him to a clean-cut man in a pristine business suit.

‘Reginald Hardcourt,’ the man said, as he shook Gilchrist’s hand. ‘Home Office.’

Greaves said, ‘Take a seat, Andy.’

Gilchrist did as he was told.

Hardcourt removed a folder from a leather case and handed it to Gilchrist. ‘Can’t let you take this away with you,’ he said, ‘but it should make for interesting reading.’

Gilchrist opened the folder to a photograph of Craig Farmer, the clarity of the image tickling his memory, telling him he had seen that face in a car driving past him one Sunday morning in Crail. He read the name, then frowned at Hardcourt. ‘Martin Fletcher?’

Hardcourt nodded. ‘Fletcher went by a number of pseudonyms. But he was with the Serious Organised Crime Agency,’ he said. ‘Worked undercover, and managed to infiltrate Kumar’s trafficking organisation. He was about to take him down when . . . well, when it all went to hell in a handbasket, quite frankly.’ Hardcourt returned Gilchrist’s stare with an inquisitive look, as if wondering why it had taken him so long to work it out.

Big Jock Shepherd’s voice came back to Gilchrist –
you should be asking yourself why Farmer pulled him off
– and he said, ‘Did Jock Shepherd know?’

Hardcourt shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think so.’

Gilchrist thought back to the phone call that morning at Crail harbour, to the Toyota and the trail that led to the house in Boarhills. He thought he now saw some sense in it all, that Farmer – Fletcher – had been feeding them breadcrumbs, leading them to the steading where Kumar was going to relocate his trafficking enterprise.

But something did not fit.

‘If Fletcher was with SOCA,’ he said, ‘why were we not kept informed?’

‘We had concerns he’d been compromised,’ Hardcourt told him. ‘We were about to call him in, bring the operation to an end. But Fletcher had invested too much of himself in it by then, so regrettably he went even deeper.’ Hardcourt shook his head. ‘Informing anyone that we had an undercover agent on the case could have got him killed.’

‘Which happened anyway,’ Gilchrist pointed out.

‘But not before he befriended Caryl Dillanos.’

Gilchrist almost gasped. ‘She was in on it?’

Hardcourt grimaced, shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But when you’re undercover, you make friends with unusual bedfellows. Fletcher trusted her, he told us. Something to do with having a common interest.’

‘Like taking Kumar down?’

Hardcourt nodded. ‘Fletcher managed to access Kumar’s personal files, but he failed to pass them to his controller. Instead, we realise now that he passed them to Dillanos.’

‘Why?’ It was all Gilchrist could think to say.

‘Again, conjecture, but we believe by that time Fletcher wanted Shepherd’s men to handle Kumar, maybe even terminate him, rather than have him spend the remainder of his life in prison.’ Hardcourt grimaced. ‘But it turned into a right sorry mess, I regret to say.’

‘And Kumar somehow found out about SOCA’s involvement and killed him?’

‘Again, not sure. More likely Fletcher knew too much about his operation, and Kumar was preparing to move forward with a clean slate. No need to have anyone close to him. That seemed to be his MO. But we’ll never know for sure.’ Hardcourt held out his hand for the folder. ‘May I?’

Gilchrist handed it back, and said nothing as Hardcourt returned it to the confines of his leather case. Then he looked at Gilchrist, and held out his hand. ‘I’ve already spoken to the chief constable and told him that you and your team did one hell of a job. Well done.’

Gilchrist shook Hardcourt’s hand, his head still spinning with it all. But he had one more question. ‘Col Feeney in Manchester,’ he said, ‘and Jerry Best in Edinburgh. Two major traffickers who were supposedly murdered at the hands of the Ghost.’

Hardcourt narrowed his eyes, wary all of a sudden. ‘I believe they were,’ he agreed.

To his side, CS Greaves pushed himself to his feet. ‘That’ll be all, Andy.’

Well, there he had it. Not high enough up the chain to talk shop with the big boys.

Gilchrist turned to leave, when Hardcourt said, ‘Needless to say, Fletcher and SOCA’s involvement will need to remain in the dark.’

‘And the Ghost, too?’ Gilchrist asked.

Hardcourt gave him a narrow smile.

‘As I said, needless to say.’ Gilchrist nodded, then left the office.

With the procurator fiscal going forward with the full set of charges, with rock-solid evidence before her, Gilchrist took his team out to mark the end of a successful case, at least in terms of nailing the bad guys. With one more shopping day before Christmas, no one was intending to stay long. But it always helped to lift team spirits, particularly after the murders of Bill and Eilidh, whose bodies were not to be released for cremation until after New Year.

The Central Bar in Market Street was a suitable venue, as always.

‘So, what’s with Nance handing in her transfer request,’ Jessie asked Gilchrist.

‘Time to move on, I suppose.’

‘Is she after my old position in Strathclyde?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Gilchrist said, and gave her a look that said,
Let’s change the subject
, then added, ‘So, have you heard from your mother?’

Jessie got the message and turned away to talk to Dan.

Gilchrist looked at Stan who was in full flow with Mhairi – now there was a thought that had never crossed his mind – and said, ‘How are your wounds, Stan old son?’

‘Doing fine, boss,’ Stan said, then returned his attention to Mhairi.

Gilchrist seemed unable to participate in any conversation. One pint later, he felt like the odd man out, and he slipped out his mobile, checked his emails. But his inbox was empty, which was becoming a bit of a rarity of late—

‘Look, it’s started snowing,’ said Mhairi, which had all heads turning to the window, and Jessie singing, ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas—’

‘Give it up,’ Mhairi said, and smacked Jessie across the thigh.

‘Careful,’ said Stan, grimacing from her sudden movement. ‘I’m still tender—’

‘My poor pet,’ Jessie smooched. ‘Like me to kiss them all better?’