Tell No Tales (14 page)

‘I have it on very good authority that they handle most crimes with an . . . ethnic dimension, shall we say?’ Shotton picked up his drink; too much ice in it. ‘That bloody Alistair Whitman. Did you read the piece he wrote about me last month?’

‘I read everything that’s written about my investments, Dick.’

Shotton took a long drink, swallowing the annoyance along with it and the urge to tell Walter to shove his money up his arse.

Noises were being made. As yet little more than insinuations, but he knew there were dozens of potential defectors among the Tory ranks who were sitting back and waiting for a solid result before switching allegiance. Men who could buy and sell Walter out of their petty cash.

There was still the small matter of the election though, and even if he wouldn’t admit it, he was becoming increasingly concerned that the murders in Peterborough would turn out to be the work of some splinter group he hadn’t negotiated a ceasefire with yet. Or worse, a lone nutter none of them were aware of, seething in his spare bedroom and practising his salutes in the bathroom mirror.

His conversation with Ken Poulter yesterday had done nothing to calm his fears either.

He admitted he’d been pulled in by the police for questioning, let go the next morning having told them nothing. It was natural, Shotton supposed, with him being the ENL’s top man, but he didn’t like Poulter’s cocky tone as he recounted the interview. Like he’d fed them a line and they’d bought it. Meaning there was something still to be found.

Not his own guilt but somebody else’s perhaps.

‘You need to deal with this,’ Walter said, leaning across the table. ‘Whatever it takes, you make sure this doesn’t impact on us.’

Before Shotton could reply he stood up, conversation over. They shook hands and Walter walked out of the room, leaving the bill unpaid.

Shotton sat for a moment with the subdued conversations murmuring around him, noticed a woman on a nearby table staring like she recognised him but wasn’t sure where from.

He took a twenty-pound note out and pinned it under his glass, eyes on the newspaper Walter had left behind as he tucked his wallet away again, thinking of all the money he’d handed over already, the peace promised to him in return. It was a gamble, he knew that as he gave it away, but it looked like a sound one. The ENL and their imitators were never a serious threat and the money was nothing more than a sweetener, designed to stop the marches for six months, keep the graffiti and the posturing to a minimum, make sure nobody gave statements to the press.

‘Hold off on the murders for a bit’ was not a condition. He thought it went without saying. Especially as they’d done nothing more serious than shout and rage for years.

Shotton walked out through the courtyard, through the deep stone archway, into the car park, where a couple of smokers were exiled.

He knocked on the driver’s side window of the Range Rover, startling Selby and Christian, who were bent over something on Christian’s mobile phone, both of them laughing, and gestured for Selby to get out. This was not a conversation to be had in front of a former copper with friends in the force.

Selby stepped down and slammed the door.

‘Problem, boss?’

‘Have you got a light?’

Selby checked his pockets until he came up with a chunky gold Zippo, handed it to Shotton while he dug out his own cigarettes.

They walked away from the vehicle, finding a sheltered spot against the car park’s high stone wall, the sound of a train coming into Stamford station, a flock of geese honking as they banked around to land on the meadow twenty yards away.

Shotton took a drag on his cigarette, watching Selby shuffling on the spot, cold in his ill-fitting black suit which was too thin for the weather.

‘Marshall wants me to let you go.’

Selby froze with his cigarette halfway to his mouth, thought for a second, then nodded.

‘He doesn’t like me much. Never hid it.’

‘He doesn’t have any issue with you,’ Shotton said. ‘It’s your friends he’s concerned about.’

‘Didn’t know he knew them.’

‘Your ENL friends.’

Selby stayed silent. He was that type of man, never spoke unless he had something to say. An old-school stoic. It was what Shotton liked about him.

‘Have you heard anything about them being pulled in by the police?’

‘Over the murders you mean? Few of them, yeah.’

‘And what’s the situation?’

Selby shrugged, punched his free hand into his trouser pocket. ‘Last I heard they were all released. The police have got nothing. Threw their weight around a fair bit, tried to get the lads to turn on each other. The usual.’

‘Are they behind it?’

Selby rocked where he stood, flexed his toes inside his spit-shined brogues. ‘Not that I know. Hardly the sort of thing you’d brag about down the pub, is it?’

‘If you were among friends you might,’ Shotton said. ‘Have any of the lads spoken to you?’

‘I hear things,’ Selby said, glancing away towards the Range Rover, sunlight obscuring the interior, but Shotton noticed Christian had lowered his window. ‘Some of them aren’t too happy about the direction Poulter’s taking the group in since he came out of the nick.’

‘Gone soft, has he?’

Selby shook his head. ‘He’s got a sight worse from what I hear. Reckon he was knocked about by the Muzzis inside, he’s wanting more direct action now. Fuck the softly-softly approach.’

It was different to what Poulter had said when he’d taken his money but Shotton remembered how his eyes had widened at the stack of crisp twenty-pound notes. Honesty tended to depart quite swiftly in those situations.

Maybe Selby was lying though. He had good reason to put the knife into Poulter. He walks out of HMP Littlehey on the Monday and by Friday he’s back in charge of the ENL, a hastily arranged poll of the members unceremoniously dumping Selby’s brother from the head job.

Poulter was unquestionably a thug. No vision, no strategic capability. He probably didn’t even know where he wanted to be in five years’ time, let alone what he wanted for the ENL. Beyond the usual drunken rabble-rousing and ethnic-baiting.

‘What’s Poulter got in mind, then?’ Shotton asked. ‘Direct action wise.’

Selby shrugged. ‘Now that kind of talk doesn’t make it outside his inner circle.’

‘But the others must be wondering why things have quietened down when Poulter wants to kick off?’

‘There’s talk,’ Selby said. ‘The young boys reckon Poulter’s behind the murders but they’re blood-hungry, they latch onto anything like that.’

‘Not an unreasonable assumption, considering his recent stay at Her Majesty’s.’

‘He wouldn’t do it himself,’ Selby said, flicking his cigarette away into a puddle, where it landed with the barest fizzle. ‘Not at his age and not after he’s just done fifteen years. From what I hear he’s the first one the police had in. He’s an idiot but he’s not that stupid.’

‘Who would he use?’

‘He won’t tell me.’ Selby looked away, tracking the progress of a middle-aged Indian couple walking out of the George’s courtyard to their car, a faint hint of disgust at his mouth. ‘It’d have to be someone he trusts though.’

Shotton pitched his own cigarette away, into the same puddle. ‘Ask around, discreetly, see who’s making a lot of noise. Or not enough.’

Selby stared at him, determined-looking. ‘And what if I get a name?’

‘You’d like to see the back of Mr Poulter, I assume.’ Shotton smiled. ‘There really is no place for his kind in the movement any more. Best he’s removed from the field, clear the way for someone better suited to the job. Don’t you think?’

18

THE EMAIL FROM
Best Lets was waiting for Zigic when he returned to his office and he opened up the attachment to find a rental agreement which showed Pyotr Dymek had been living at the unit on Oxford Road for almost eighteen months, always paid up on time, had another six months to run on his contract. There were references from the two places he had stayed before, showing that he’d been in Peterborough for almost four years, and one from the employment agency he was registered with.

He called them and explained the situation to the man who answered, got a polite response and a promise to send over Dymek’s file.

‘Did you know he was heading back home?’ Zigic asked.

‘Yes, he informed us last week,’ the man said, speaking with the barest trace of an accent, his words clipped and precise. ‘I believe it is a family matter. We were expecting him to return in a few days. We have work scheduled for him.’

‘Do you have contact details for his family?’

‘They will be in his file if we do.’

Zigic rang off and went into the main office.

Grieves and Parr had gone for lunch, leaving their desks cluttered with paperwork. Parr had forgotten his mobile and it flashed as a message came in. ‘Home’ on the display.

The board where their hit-and-run was plotted out had filled up a little during the morning. A photograph lifted from Hossa Motors’ CCTV footage was tacked up near the suspects column, showing a man of medium build and medium height, who could have been Anthony Gilbert, standing in front of the white Volvo. He wore a woollen hat pulled down to his eyebrows and a scarf wound loosely at his throat, hiding a significant portion of his lower face.

‘It could be anyone,’ Ferreira said.

‘Have we found where the money came from?’ Zigic asked, turning to Wahlia, who was eating a bagel at his desk.

He nodded, mouth full. ‘Four separate withdrawals, a hundred quid a time in the week before it was bought. Different cash machines.’

‘He’s an idiot if he thinks that’s covering,’ Ferreira said.

‘Blood on the airbag’s a type match,’ Wahlia said.

‘I don’t know what else we can do until the DNA comes back then. We’ve gone as far as we can with this. We need to talk to him.’

Zigic frowned. ‘What have we got from Jelena’s phone?’

‘Same kind of stuff we saw with her Facebook messages,’ Wahlia said. ‘She was texting him a lot, just the usual small talk but pretty frequent. They were supposed to be meeting up Saturday morning in Carluccio’s – she arranged that, not him. She said she wanted to talk about “what happened”.’

Zigic wondered how she’d planned to slip away from Sofia. He didn’t imagine she’d let Jelena out of her sight easily and it seemed ridiculous that a grown woman could be dominated so completely by her sister. Why was she even lying about seeing Gilbert? Was it just easier to let Sofia feel like she’d won?

‘There’s one weird thing I noticed,’ Wahlia said, pulling a few sheets of paper out from under his keyboard. ‘Tomas – Sofia’s boyfriend – there are a couple of references to him, but they don’t make much sense.’

‘Where is he, anyway?’ Ferreira asked.

‘Poznań,’ Zigic said. ‘Have we got a number for him, Bobby?’

‘It’s in Jelena’s contacts, I’ll find it in a second.’ He sifted through the papers, which were heavily marked with pink highlighter. ‘So, two weeks ago we’ve got her saying she tried to talk to Sofia about Tomas.’

‘About what?’ Zigic asked.

‘She doesn’t say. Gilbert gets back, tells her to give Sofia space.’ Wahlia frowned. ‘They don’t discuss it any further. Then a couple of days after that Jelena says Sofia is acting strangely, she’s being very quiet. She reckons she’s missing him.’

‘You think he’s left her?’ Ferreira asked. ‘Would explain why he doesn’t seem bothered about what’s happened. I mean, how far’s Poznań when someone’s died? You’d get on the first plane out, wouldn’t you?’

‘She was vague about him,’ Zigic said, thinking of how defensive she was when he asked if there was anyone who could stay with her. ‘What’s his number?’

Wahlia found it and Zigic dialled as he read it out, standing looking at the trajectory of the car tacked up on the murder board, small red dots marking where everyone was standing, small black ones for the positions of their corpses.

It rang straight through to the message service, a man’s gruff voice speaking Polish. He waited for the tone, answered in kind.

‘This is Detective Inspector Zigic. I’m sorry to inform you that your girlfriend Sofia has been involved in an accident. She’s fine, but we need to talk to you.’ He left his numbers and ended the call, stood with his mobile pressed to his mouth, looking at the small dots which represented Jelena Krasic. The space between them was so minimal that they overlapped like a Venn diagram; one second she had been standing on the kerb and the next she was on the roof of the Volvo. No time to react even if she wasn’t distracted by her mobile phone.

Pyotr Dymek must have had lightning reflexes and Zigic thought it spoke well of the man that he pushed Sofia, a complete stranger, out of the way, rather than saving himself. It wouldn’t make the inevitable call to his family any easier but he hoped they would take some comfort from knowing he died a hero.

In his office the computer pinged as a new email arrived.

The agency had sent over Dymek’s complete employment history, tax number and bank account, a photocopy of his passport, but all Zigic needed was the next of kin.

Andrea Dymek – wife.

He stared at the words for a couple of seconds. It wouldn’t get any easier if he left it.

He looked at the photograph of Anna on his desk, imagining a woman just like her, going about her usual daily routine with no idea what had happened to her husband.

Or did she know already, deep in her bones, that something was wrong? Dymek was due to catch a bus yesterday morning; by now he should be home. Had she waited at the depot in Łódź for him, dressed up carefully, wanting him to see her at her best after months away? Did she have their children with her, bribed with sweets to behave for Daddy? Had she searched for him in the sea of tired faces, expectation making her smile, until the coach was empty and there was nothing else to do but ring him and ask where he was?

Zigic dialled the number slowly, cleared his throat as it rang, lifting his eyes from Anna’s photo.

A woman answered after three rings, the sound of children squabbling in the background, a television playing.

‘Yes? Who is this?’ she asked in brisk Polish.